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CAMEOS FROM CALVARY 
Rey. J. W. G. WARD, pv.p. 





CAMEOS \g es 
FROM CALVARY 


BY 
Rev. J. W. G. WARD, po. 


MINISTER OF EMMANUEL CHURCH, MONTREAL; 
FORMERLY OF NEW COURT CHURCH, 
TOLLINGTON PARK, LONDON 


Author of “Problems That Perplex,? “Messages from 
Master Minds,” “Parables for Little People,” 
“The Master and the Twelve,” etc. 


NEW os YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT, 1925, 
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


CAMEOS FROM CALVARY 
falls fae 
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


TO THE CHURCHES 


EMMANUEL, MONTREAL, 
NEW COURT, LONDON, 
AND 
EMMANUEL, BOOTLE, LANC, 


WHOSE AFFECTION HAS BEEN 
AN UNFAILING INSPIRATION 
THROUGH THE YEARS 


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FOREWORD 


wi the passing years it is almost inevitable 
that the events recorded in the Gospels should 
lose some of their vividness ‘The characters tend to 
become mere figures of history, and the mind fails 
to realize that these were men and women of like 
passions with ourselves. This is peculiarly true of 
those who crowd our Lord’s last week. ‘Their 
schemings and subterfuges have lost their venom. 
Voices are no longer vibrant with hate. And pity 
for their ignorant prejudice displaces indignation. 
Our aim in these studies has been to set ourselves 
back amid the actual scenes of those momentous 
days which culminated in the sacrifice of Jesus Christ 
on Calvary, and to re-clothe these people with pul- 
sating humanity. We listen to the subtle plottings 
of those who seek His destruction, and witness the 
outworking of their enmity. There are tense mo- 
ments when the destiny of the race hangs in the 
balance. Malice and duplicity are rampant. Yet 
against the sombre background, the superb character 
of Christ stands revealed in radiant splendour, as 
the stars shine bright in the skies of midnight. In 
the hope that the noble spirit of some who encircled 
His cross may inspire the heart with new enthusiasm 
and fervent love, and may make for a more virile 
faith, we send these studies forth on their wider 


ministry. 
J. W. G. Warp. 


EMMANUEL CHURCH, 
MONTREAL, 
Vii 





CHAPTER 


CONTENTS 


ANNAS, THE DEGENERATE 
CAIAPHAS, THE TIME-SERVER . 


THE Goop MAN OF THE HOUSE . 


THE OWNER OF THE GARDEN 
Faces AROUND THE FIRE 
PILATE, THE IRRESOLUTE 
THE WIFE OF PILATE 
HEROD, THE SUPERFICIAL 
BARABBAS OR CHRIST? 

‘THE CROSS-BEARER . 

THE CHRIST OF CALVARY 
THE Two MAtLeractors 
Tue Crown Azsout tHE Cross 
THE OFFICER IN COMMAND . 
Mary AND Her FRIENDS 
JOSEPH OF ARIMATHAA 
NiIcODEMUS, THE SENSITIVE . 


PAGE 
13 
26 
38 
52 
63 
78 
95 

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125) 


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154 
163 
180 
194 
210 
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251 





CAMEOS FROM CALVARY 


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CAMEOS FROM CALVARY 


I 
ANNAS, THE DEGENERATE 


SLovannas, frst \. 4. 
—JOHN 18:13. 


Wy eUrD they never come? Annas turned his 
piercing eyes again to the door of his apart- 
ment, fingering his white beard angrily. His im- 
perious will chafed against the delay. He was 
accustomed to have his orders carried out swiftly, 
but in this case any loss of time might mean all the 
difference between failure and success. His seventy 
years, far from mellowing his soul and diminishing 
his capacity for intrigue, had made him relentless 
when any one ventured to cross his path. It is true 
that he had much to embitter him. At the invita- 
tion of Herod the Great, he had exchanged Alex- 
andria for Jerusalem some years before to become 
the High Priest of the Jews. The appointment was 
sanctioned by Quirinius in A.D. 6, and Annas began 
a lengthy period in which he exercised his authority 
with unquestioned right. But his arrogance, coupled 
with subtle manceuvres to increase his power, roused 
suspicion. His influence was seen to be a dangerous 
factor, and so after eight years, Valerius Gratus, 
who preceded Pilate in Judea, deposed the High 
Priest from office. 
13 


14 Cameos from Calvary 


Annas was not the man to relinquish the reins 
without a struggle. He could not withstand the 
authority of the Procurator, so he sought other 
means of retaining his power. Josephus records: 
“This elder Ananus was most fortunate, for he had 
five sons, and it happened they all held the office of 
High Priest to God.” That simple statement indi- 
cates the course Annas pursued. He saw how he 
could keep his grip on the ecclesiastical and political 
life of the nation. His sons in turn succeeded him, 
but though they were each found objectionable by 
Rome, Annas remained the power behind the throne. 
None could measure the might of this unprincipled 
man. It were bad enough that one should grow 
old in wickedness without any signs of an operative 
conscience. But it were a thousand times worse 
when that man was the representative of God. In 
the one case, he dishonoured only his own name; 
in the latter, he dragged the holiest things in the 
mire, making religion a by-word. Entirely devoid 
of scruple, and planning only for his own aggran- 
dizement, Annas stooped to anything and stopped 
at nothing. He was wealthy as well as powerful, 
and his most fruitful source of income was the most 
shameful. He had secured the monopoly in pro- 
viding materials necessary for the Temple’s require- 
ments. Not only was it imperative that certain 
sacrifices be offered by the worshippers, but also that 
they should obtain the animals and birds from the 
booths which the sons of Annas controlled. In ad- 
dition, a lucrative business was carried on in ex- 
changing the money brought by pilgrims from afar. 
Their dues had to be paid, according to the Law, 
in the shekels of the sanctuary, and this would open 


Annas, the Degenerate 15 


the way for skilful manipulation and dishonesty. 
The untutored country folk were easy victims for 
those who could ring the changes; and the varying 
rates of commission charged, together with the in- 
clusion of counterfeit coins and the giving of 
wrong change, all provided a means of spoiling the 
stranger. he effect on the mind of the devout can 
be seen, and the Talmudic curse is significant: ‘‘Woe 
to the house of Annas! Woe to their serpent-like 
hissings.”’ This refers to the whispers of the money- 
changers as they plundered the unwary, and the 
fierce protests which followed any attempt on the 
part of the victimized to get justice. Wickedness 
was firmly entrenched. Dryden says, “‘Had coves 
tous men, as the fable of Briareus goes, each of them 
one hundred hands, they would all of them be em- 
ployed in grasping and gathering, and hardly one of 
them in giving or laying out, but all in receiving and 
none in restoring; a thing in itself so monstrous, that 
nothing in Nature besides is like it, except it be 
death and the grave, the only things I know which 
are always carrying off the spoils of the world, and 
making no restitution.” Certainly, there was no one 
who could call the High Priest to book, or get 
redress even if he accused Annas’s sons. Though 
men’s hearts grew hot, they were helpless in face of 
such established abuses. 

There came a day, however, when that vested 
power was challenged. Annas met his match. Jesus 
had for some time caused great anxiety in the breast 
of the High Priest, and His shafts rankled in the 
minds of those against whose wickedness they were 
launched. But the Galilean had not taken the law 
into His own hands, and the rulers were unable to 


16 Cameos from Calvary 


take action in any definite way. Then matters came 
to a head. Jesus had journeyed to the Capital in 
company with worshippers from all parts. It was 
feast-time, and business in the Temple precincts was 
brisk, when suddenly the Preacher strode through 
the cloisters. He saw what was going on. Per- 
chance He heard some altercation between a pilgrim 
and one of the money-changers, and the words, 
“Cheat! Dishonest rogue!’ smote on His ear. 
Obtaining a scourge of cords, He swept into the 
midst of buyers and sellers, and flinging over the 
tables at which these primitive Shylocks sat, care- 
less of the scattering coins or the invective of the 
men concerned, He drove them into the open. 

The curses of these discomfited profiteers were 
drowned by the laughter and applause of the on- 
lookers. ‘‘Den of thieves was well said, Master!” 
cries one. ‘Yea, truly,” adds another. ‘Too long 
have they been allowed to pilfer the hard-earned 
money of those who would worship the God of their 
fathers. Blessed be the name of the Lord who hath 
given us One to avenge the spoiled!” And the in- 
cident ended as the crowd melted into small groups. 

Ended? Not if one knew Annas, the black- 
hearted! Word was carried to the chamber where 
business was planned and plots hatched. His face 
darkened with rage. To think that this Galilean 
should dare to tamper with ancient rights and privi- 
leges! He would answer for His impertinence! 
The covetous heart of Annas knew no shame. He 
was not in the wrong; on the contrary, he had been 
wronged! And a plan of campaign was framed. 
The hour had struck. If it were not possible to 
arrest Jesus on this charge—and Annas probably 


Annas, the Degenerate 17 


had some doubt regarding the expediency of it— 
other means must be devised. 

Trusted conspirators met in this private room, 
their weak wills stiffened to decision by the vehe- 
mence that burned on the old man’s lips. It was 
he who showed them how this end could be com- 
passed. They were too fearful of consequences. 
Many a time, Annas had braved opposition, and 
as he pointed out, the worst troubles men ever en- 
dure are those which never happen. Let the Temple 
guard be reinforced by some whose support could 
be obtained for a consideration, and Jesus would 
soon be in their power! 

“But why are they so long in coming?” Annas 
was strangely perturbed. He knew it was neces- 
sary to move warily. Before he confronted the San- 
hedrin with this Man, he must be sure of his case— 
more sure than he could be of some of the Elders 
who had expressed sympathy with this Peasant- 
Preacher on more than one occasion. Annas turned 
to the heavily draped window and looked out. He 
could see no sign of the flickering torches that would 
betoken the returning guard. ‘Then he smiled in- 
voluntarily at his own crassness. They would natu- 
rally extinguish the lights as soon as they laid hold 
of Him. He had not thought of that! There must 
be the utmost caution, or their plans were doomed 
to disaster. 

The noise of hurrying feet was heard. The door 
was flung open. And Annas, hastily resuming his 
seat, tried to look as unconcerned and impartial as 
his position demanded. ‘The Prisoner stood before 
him. The old ecclesiastic stifled a sigh of relief. 
The heavy lids scarcely concealed the satisfaction 


18 Cameos from Calvary 


with which he surveyed that figure with its hands 
bound together. ‘This was a good omen. ‘The 
initial move had succeeded, and in spite of the doubts 
of some, the scheme would be completed without a 
hitch. So Annas opened the examination. The 
fact that the entire proceeding was illegal, from the 
standpoint of both Roman and Jewish law, did not 
affect him in the least. A man so steeped in sin, 
who had grown old in cupidity and intrigue, was 
not to be deterred by any legal difficulties. More- 
over, he was in the position of authority. He might 
not be officially regarded as the High Priest, but 
he did not admit for a moment the validity of the 
power which had dethroned him, even though it was 
that same power which had conferred the honour on 
him originally. He was in possession of the Pris- 
oner, and possession was nine points of the law! 
So he proceeded to interrogate the Galilean with 
scrupulous care. His questions reveal the fact to 
which we have referred: Annas was not sure of his 
case, and he required evidence that would enable 
him to send Jesus before the Sanhedrin with the 
issue decided. First he enquired of Him concerning 
His disciples and teaching. But if he expected to 
get some damaging admission from the Prisoner, 
he was disappointed. With masterly skill, Jesus 
turned each thrust like a swordsman deftly parrying 
the blow of his opponent. “I spake openly to the 
world; I ever taught in the synagogue and in the 
Temple, whither the Jews always resort; and in 
secret have I said nothing. Why askest thou Me? 
Ask them which heard Me, what I have said unto 
them.” 

Whether we grasp the significance of the reply 


Annas, the Degenerate 19 


or not, Annas certainly did. It showed this plainly: 
not only was Jesus familiar with the law’s require- 
ments, but He also divined the object of His arrest. 
According to the legal code of that day, no prisoner 
arraigned on a capital charge might be questioned 
in this manner. ‘The onus rested on the prosecu- 
tion. It must substantiate the accusations step by 
step by its own witnesses. Jesus proved that He 
knew Annas’s methods were contrary both to the 
letter and spirit of the law, and that there was a 
sinister motive behind this trial. The intention was 
to secure sentence of death whatever the evidence 
might prove. And the effect on Annas removed any 
doubt as to the accuracy of this conjecture. His 
clenched fist strikes the table. The veins standing 
out on his wrinkled brow indicate the unleashed 
passions within. The officer, taking his cue from 
his master, adds brutality to illegality by savagely 
striking the Prisoner in the face. 

‘“‘Answerest thou the High Priest so?” 

Jesus winced at the blow. It was as unexpected 
as it was undeserved. He turned to the man who 
had thus shown his officious zeal. There was only 
sadness in His voice, for none more willing than He 
to make allowance for human mistakes. 

“Tf I have spoken evil, bear witness of the evil; 
but if well, why smitest thou Me?” 

Jesus had turned the tables on His accuser. This 
violence is an eloquent admission of defeat. But 
for upwards of an hour, the stupid farce went on. 
Annas, unwilling to admit that he was beaten, still 
hoped to cow the undaunted spirit of his enemy. 
If only he could get some word that might be con- 
strued into a threat against the State, as well as in 


20 Cameos from Calvary 


contravention of the Mosaic Law, all might yet be 
well. So no effort was spared to break down the 
courageous calm which Jesus manifested. Adjura- 
tions, gibes, and denunciation were all weapons in 
the armoury of this spiritual degenerate. Yet each 
arrow in turn broke on the impenetrable shield of 
that blameless life. The incident is a striking 
example of what Shakespeare had in mind when he 
wrote: 


/ “Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just, 
And he but naked, though locked up in steel, 
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.” 


While Jesus confronted His accuser with unper- 
turbed soul, what were the feelings of Annas? Per- 
haps his conscience was stirred; that would serve 
only to inflame his anger the more. Charles Dickens 
shows us the effect wrought by one pure life upon 
another dissolute soul, and the parallel is suggestive 
in the extreme. When Sidney Carton comes into 
contact with the noble-hearted Lucy Manette, it is 
as though he were lifted to a point of vantage from 
which a new plane of being became visible. He had 
seen her beautiful devotion to her father, the old 
prisoner liberated from the Bastille, and against her 
pure life, Carton felt the shame of his own ways 
thrown into violent contrast. He was moved to 
the depths. In a memorable interview in the 
Doctor’s London garden, Carton confessed this. 
‘I wish you to know,’ he says to Miss Manette, 
“that you have been the last dream of my soul. In 
my degradation I have not been so degraded, but 
that the sight of you with your father, and of this 


Annas, the Degenerate pai 


home, made such a home by you, has stirred old 
shadows that I thought had died out of me. Since 
I knew you, I have been troubled with a remorse that 
I thought would never reproach me again, and have 
heard whispers from old voices impelling me up- 
ward that I thought were silent for ever.” 7 

In Carton’s case, those feelings were not allowed 
to pass without being turned to some practical good. 
Eventually, he gave his life to prove the sincerity 
of his words. But in the case of Annas, was there 
not also some effect when confronted by Christ? 
Momentarily, he must have seen himself in the 
mirror of memory. In those far-away days in 
Alexandria, he had not been without some response 
to the good. He was impelled to devote his life to 
philosophy and religion. ‘The lofty minds of the 
past led his feet along the paths of knowledge. 
While some took the ways of pleasure, and others 
sought the prizes of the senate and the marketplace, 
he had dedicated himself to higher things. The 
door of opportunity swung on its hinges. The 
summons to Jerusalem, that city of sacred memories 
and holy privileges, with its historic buildings from 
every stone of which inspiration seemed to exude, 
made an irresistible appeal. And he was duly in- 
stalled as God’s High Priest. Clad in the vest- 
ments of that exalted office, he felt the worth of the 
spiritual in a way that overwhelmed him. When 
on the solemn Day of Atonement he laid aside those 
regal robes, and went forth in a simple garment 
expressive of holiness, bearing the blood of sacri- 
fice, to make intercession for the expectant people, 
he reached the high-water mark of spiritual emo- 
tion. 


22 Cameos from Calvary 


All that came back to him as he sat moodily con- 
templating his Prisoner. His was the tragedy of 
degeneration. He had permitted himself to grow 
familiar with sacred things. Wonder had died from 
his heart. Instead of being a man of God, he had 
come to regard himself as a god of men, receiving 
their homage not because of the holy functions he 
exercised, but as though it were his by right. Secure 
from criticism from below, Annas resolutely ex- 
cluded any thought of judgment from above. The 
fruits of office were rich. He was the pivot on 
which everything centred, and he utilized his power 
to the full. As quaint old Tupper has it, “The 
love of money is the root of all evil. It grows up 
like a little plant of coveting; presently the leaves 
get rank, the branches spread and feed on petty 
thefts; then in their early seasons come the blos- 
soms: black designs, plots involved and undeveloped 
yet, of foul conspiracies, extortions on the weak, rich 
robbings of the wealthy, the threatened slander, the 
rewarded lie, malice, perjury, sacrilege. Then 
speedily cometh on the climax, the consummate 
flower, the dark-red murder. And the fruit, bear- 
ing in itself the seeds that never die, is righteous, 
wrathful condemnation.” Strong though the lan- 
guage, Annas merits it all. His undisputed rule 
gave him a mighty lever by which to lift himself to 
an even more exalted position in the state, and by 
which others might be removed from his path. 
Proof is found in subsequent events. Rome was 
tolerant regarding the religious customs of the 
peoples she subjugated. So long as a nation were 
peaceful, paid its dues, and gave the government no 
trouble, it would not be molested. ‘The fact is, 


Annas, the Degenerate 23 


Rome had more important matters with which to 
concern herself. The organization of her territorial 
acquisitions kept her fully occupied. It was only 
when there was the likelihood of revolt or tumult 
that she intervened. There were disquieting signs 
in Judza, and in spite of all his sanctimonious as- 
surances, it was felt Annas was not to be trusted. 
So Valerius thrust the High Priest from his seat 
before it was too late. 

Such were the thoughts of this one-time servant of 
Jehovah. Looking into the face of this Man of 
whom nothing but good could be proved, it mad- 
dened him to think from what he had fallen. Far 
from being moved by any feelings of humanity, 
Annas, whose name stood for ‘The Merciful,” 
showed how far he had declined from honour. He 
would not relent! He would bring this Man who 
had dared to set His puny will against His betters 
down to the dust. And though it were impossible 
to get any justification of such an end from His own 
lips, there were other means. ‘This cynical hypocrite 
was a past-master in the art of discovering by-paths 
of guile, and all that follows shows the real char- 
acter of the man. 

A messenger entered the room. He stood 
obsequiously by, waiting for the signal to approach. 
Then he imparted the news that the Sanhedrin had 
been called together and wished to know his pleas- 
ure. A gleam of satisfaction flashed across the 
withered face. A word of command to the officer, 
a whispered communication to the messenger, and 
the Prisoner was pushed unceremoniously towards 
the door. The guard formed about Him, and the 
party then made its way across the courtyard, past 


24 Cameos from Calvary 


a fire where a group stood talking, and into the 
house of Caiaphas, where an emergency meeting of 
the Sanhedrin had been convened. 

As the sound of the retreating footsteps died 
away, were there no regrets in the heart of Annas? 
Was there no feeling of remorse? Probably not. 
That is the appalling fact of sin: it deadens the 
soul. The petrifying springs that are found in 


Britain provide a singular analogy. An object 


placed beneath the constantly dripping water as it 
comes through the limestone rock is gradually trans- 
formed into a solid mass. The branch of a tree, for 
example, which had possibilities of bloom and fruit 
may be completely changed in time, though the water 
looks innocuous enough. Yet as it falls, drop by 
. drop, it deposits its sediment until every vestige 
of life is gone. So it is with conscience. The time 
for repentance had passed as far as Annas was con- 
cerned. He had deliberately chosen the second- 
best rather than the best; then he had fixed his 
affections on evil rather than on the good. Like 
Esau, he had bartered his birthright fora mess of 
pottage. No matter what he had gained, even 
though the world were his, what was the use if 
he had lost his own soul? It was even as this 
despised Galilezan had said. 

Undue familiarity with sacred things is its own 
Nemesis. Annas had withstood the promptings of 
the Divine Spirit so long that he was uninfluenced 
by anything higher than his own base ends. It was 
tragic. Here was a man, incapable of using the 


splendid faculties with which he had been endowed, 


He might have wrought good in the world; instead 
he wrought only hurt to others and to himself. He 


Annas, the Degenerate yay 


might have been the transmitter as well as the re- 
cipient of the blessings of the Almighty. And a 
like temptation to turn from the highest assails every 
soul. The man in the ministerial office is perhaps 
peculiarly susceptible to it. He is in daily contact 
with spiritual things. He handles the sacred vessels 
of the Lord: those hands must be clean. He im- 
parts counsel to others, and sets forth God’s will for 
His people: yet his own soul must be guided by that» 
counsel and controlled by that will. The Apostle 
Paul was filled with concern lest, when he had 
preached to others, he himself might become a cast- 
away. While in the well-known words of Ophelia 
the matter is expressed from another angle: 


“Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, 
Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; 
Whilst, like a puff’d and reckless libertine, 
Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, 
And recks not his own rede.” 


Yet that applies to us all. We must jealously guard 
the shrine of the soul. It must be kept unpolluted 
by the feet of the mere chafferer of the market. 
The heart must never be allowed to lose its sensi- _ 


tiveness to the voice of God. And this can be ac-.. 


complished only by setting vigilant sentinels at the 
portals of the inner life, and keeping the soul in 
tune with the Infinite. 


IT 
CAIAPHAS, THE TIME-SERVER 


“Unto Caiaphas, the High Priest.’ 
—JOHN 18: 24. 


AIAPHAS, the son-in-law of old Annas, knew 
which was the main chance. His eyes had 
always been upon it. A marriage of convenience 
had proved the Open Sesame to a position which 
he had hardly dreamed possible. But like Faust 
himself, he was ready to sell his soul. He was pre- 
pared to prostitute even the sacred estate of mar- 
riage to compass his unworthy ends. Annas had 
fallen into disrepute. He had played his game both 
skilfully and unscrupulously. His sons who fol- 
lowed him in the sacred office followed his injunc- 
tions, but it was seen that this was only a ruse to 
keep his hand on national affairs. Valerius decided 
that neither Annas nor any of his family could be 
tolerated any longer. But the Procurator was busy 
with other matters of administration, and even were 
it not so, it is doubtful if he would have been a 
match for the cunning of Annas. 

When the office of High Priest fell vacant, a 
nomination which came from an entirely different 
quarter seemed quite satisfactory. Valerius was not 
to know what had been arranged, but a marriage- 
alliance between Caiaphas and the daughter of 


Annas brought the former into the line of succession. 
26 


Cazaphas, the Time-Server ah 


The Procurator did not know Caiaphas; he cer- 
tainly did not know Annas either. So the new High 
Priest was duly installed, and later, the bargain 
made in secret was duly completed. Caiaphas and 
the ex-High Priest’s daughter were married. And 
though the new occupant of that exalted office may 
have flattered himself that he was now supreme in 
the hierarchy of the nation, he subsequently dis- 
covered that he was, in reality, only another tool in 
the hands of his predecessor—a tool if not a fool! 
Nor did it take long to show that. His decisions 
were overruled by the older man. His policy was 
dictated by orders emanating from the same source. 
Still, he accepted the inevitable with the best grace 
he could, believing that in the nature of things, 
time would eventually exact its toll, and the day of 
undisputed authority and untrammelled ambition 
would dawn. . 

While Caiaphas was intent on his own advance- 
ment, he began to see that his power was being 
undermined. This was due more to the advent of 
Jesus than to Annas. And while he and his father- 
in-law were antagonistic towards each other in other 
ways there was one subject on which they entirely 
agreed. That was their detestation of the Galilean. 
For one thing, He was too out-spoken; for another, 
He was disseminating doctrines repugnant to them 
both. They were Sadducees, and had no belief in 
any future life; but this Man had. Moreover, He 
taught that the requirements of God were practical, 
rather than ceremonial. He shared the heresies of 
men like Amos, who decried sacrifice, and urged 
obedience to the will of God instead;—as though 
sacrifice were not obedience to that will! In doing 


28 Cameos from Calvary 


that, Jesus was cutting at the root of their financial 
undertakings. Once let such ideas gain favour with 
the people, and what would become of the trade 
in sacrificial animals they had so laboriously built 
up? Nor was that all’ Jesus not only emphasized 
man’s responsibility before God, but openly taught 
that reward or retribution would follow in a future 
life. 

Caiaphas opposed such dangerous doctrines with 
all the prejudice and ferocity of the partisan, and a 
crisis was precipitated by the raising of Lazarus. 
Tennyson graphically describes it: 


“When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, 
And hope to Mary’s house returned .. . 
From every house the neighbours met, 
The streets were fill’d with joyful sound, 
A solemn gladness even crown’d 
The purple brows of Olivet.” 


The consequences were easy to forecast. One who 
could do such incredible works would create a 
furore. The people might turn to Him, hailing 
Him as the expected deliverer, and the resulting 
tumult would inevitably bring the punitive hand of 
Rome upon the rulers. What had happened before 
to Annas might happen again, and Caiaphas would 
be thrust from power. ‘This was the fear that 
shadowed his vile heart. He tried to drape it with 
the robe of patriotism, but his concern was not for 
his people, but for his position. The matter was 
laid before the Council, and the gravity of the sit- 
uation was pointed out: 

“What do we, for this Man doeth many miracles ? 
If we let Him thus alone, all men will believe on 


Cazaphas, the Tzme-Server 29 


Him, and the Romans shall come and take away 
both our place and nation.” 

He gauged the impression these words made. 
While some were greatly perturbed, there were 
others who remained unconvinced. Then the High 
Priest launched his missile: 

“Ye know nothing at all, nor consider that it is 
expedient for us that one man should die for the 
people, that the whole nation perish not!” 

That view might seem disinterested did we not 
perceive the cloven hoof in its phrasing. ‘It is 
expedient for us that one man should die.’”’ Queen 
Victoria was asked to append her signature to an 
order for which one of her Cabinet required the 
royal assent. He urged it on grounds of expediency, 
but she demurred. “I have been taught that some 
things are right, and others wrong; but I have never 
been instructed in what is expedient. Is this right?” 
And the order remained unsigned. But Caiaphas 
was not troubled by such fine distinctions. He saw 
the danger. He saw too that the swiftest way of 
averting it was to silence this obnoxious Teacher 
once for all. Happily for the small degree of self- 
respect remaining to the Sanhedrin, it refused to 
act, and the issue was undecided. Yet that was only 
for a time. Annas and he talked over the matter, 
and formulating plans from which nothing would 
turn them aside, they waited their chance. ‘The 
months passed, but sooner or later, they would gain 
their goal. 

Now we understand why Jesus was arrested with 
such secrecy. Perhaps Annas felt that so many 
pilgrims being in the city might jeopardize their 
scheme, and they were disposed to wait until the 


30 Cameos from Calvary 


Feast was over. But the incident of cleansing the 
Temple gave them the opportunity they sought. 
The conspirators had good ground for taking ac- 
tion, and hoped therefore to carry the Council with 
them. Yet at all costs, they must avoid any pub- 
licity that would incite a public demonstration of 
sympathy. So with the autocrat’s suspicion of’ 
democracy, steps were taken for a sudden coup. 
The course might be contrary to the law, but in 
the opinion of both Annas and Caiaphas the end 
would justify the means. Once get the Galilean 
in their power, and steps could later be taken to 
overcome the scruples of the Sanhedrin on the 
grounds of urgency. 


“No ceremony that to great ones ‘longs, 
Not the king’s crown, nor the deputed sword, 
The marshal’s baton, nor the judge’s robe, 
Become them with one-half so good a grace 
As mercy does.” 


But these ecclesiastics were merciless. 

The Council over which Caiaphas presided that 
night was possibly only partly attended. It con- 
sisted nominally of seventy members, and was a sur- 
vival of the idea instituted by Moses when he chose, 
under the Divine direction, seventy elders to assist 
him in legislating for the tribes. We have no con- 
clusive information as to the mode of election to the 
assembly, but its members were of pronounced Sad- 
ducean tendencies, and were largely drawn from the 
ranks of the priests and scribes. The qualifications 
for the position were that a man should be learned, 
popular, and humble. Yet a man might possess 
these sterling qualities without necessarily being of 


Cataphas, the Trme-Server 31 


a deeply religious character. While the functions of 
the Council were primarily spiritual, it had also a 
voice in determining national policy, and exercised 
considerable authority over the people themselves. 
Self-government had been accorded within measure 
by the imperial power. The Sanhedrin could arrest 
and punish men for breaches of their laws, but the 
right of inflicting the death penalty was vested solely 
in the Roman governor. We may note in passing 
that although Stephen was stoned to death by its 
authority, the proceeding was as illegal as the trial 
of Jesus, and that sentence was the equivalent of a 
modern lynching. 

Still bound, and under guard, Christ was ar- 
raigned before the Elders of His own race. But 
before His foes could hope to secure sentence of 
death from the Procurator, they must arrive at some 
verdict that would seem to justify such an extreme 
measure. So the trial was hurried on. Their object 
was, however, not so much to give Him a trial as to 
secure His condemnation. It would be useless to 
go to Pilate with any complaint about His disregard 
of the Mosaic traditions. That was a matter for 
the Jewish rulers, and did not come within his pur- 
view. Questions of His neglect of their estab- 
lished customs, or His supposed violation of the 
Sabbath, would be brushed aside as childish. Some 
charge of greater import must by some means be 
laid at the door of this Preacher who had shaken 
society to its foundations. Yet they had to proceed 
with some regard for their legal code, and the case 
must first be heard by their own court. The fact 
that a prisoner on trial for his life had the right to 
bring witnesses for the defence before those of the 


32 Cameos from Calvary 


prosecution were heard, was waived. He had no 
such witnesses—as they were careful to see before 
the court was constituted. They had, therefore, to 
deal with the evidence which was available, and for 
which, naturally, impartial judges could assume no 
responsibility ! 

What was the charge preferred against Jesus? 
The Prisoner had a right to know, and the wit- 
nesses were duly called. It appears from the Gospel 
of Matthew that a number of men had been brought 
promiscuously together to give evidence. Probably 
they heard that there was money to be made out 
of it, and while they refused to divulge the exact 
nature of the information at their disposal, a sig- 
nificant raising of the eyebrow, or an inclination of 
the head would imply: 


“T could a tale unfold whose lightest word 
Would harrow up thy soul.” 


The tale did not, however, materialize. From the 
standpoint of those who were so anxious to make 
out their case, their testimony proved worthless. 
They had no facts to substantiate their statements, 
and convincing though their story might be for those 
willing to be convinced, they would certainly not 
command the assent of Pilate. Matters were not 
going well for the plotters, and Caiaphas was 
tufted. The savage curl of his lip, as one after 
another stood down, showed his anger. It looked 
as though he were to be denied success just when 
it was within his reach. The list of witnesses was 
rapidly nearing the end, and the advisability of 
spiriting the Prisoner away until the time was more 


Cacaphas, the Time-Server 33 


opportune had occurred to the High Priest’s mind, 
when hope dawned. Two were at last found to 
corroborate each other. They both declared: ‘‘We 
heard Him say, I will destroy this temple made 
with hands, and in three days I will build another 
made without hands.”’ It was only a garbled state- 
ment of something Christ had said, but though in- 
accurate and grossly unfair, there was some truth 
underlying it. That His words had been wrenched 
from their context, that what He had said meta- 
phorically had been literalized, went for nothing. 
There were some there who remembered the utter- 
ance, though they did not care to recall the reason 
for it. 

The Jews had come demanding, ‘‘What sign show- 
est Thou unto us, seeing Thou doest these things?” 
He replied, “Destroy this temple, and in three days 
I will raise it up.” ‘Their retort was, ‘‘Forty and 
six years was this temple in building, and wilt Thou 
rear it up in three days?” They were right. The 
temple built by Herod the Great to supersede the 
structure restored by Zerubbabel had taken that 
length of time. The walls and colonnades had re- 
quired eight years to build, the temple proper took 
a year and a half, while the grandiose scheme with 
its imposing cloisters and various buildings, includ- 
ing probably the hall in which the Sanhedrin met, 
took another thirty-seven years before completion. 
So they were right—and they were wrong. These 
were presumably men of light and leading, and they 
must have known that this was either the irrespon- 
sible boast of one who was not to be taken seri- 
ously, or else—and it is the only fair construction 
that could be put on His words—that this Teacher 


34 Cameos from Calvary 


meant something entirely different. In any case, it 
may well puzzle us to see how they could interpret 
that statement as a threat against the good gov- 
ernance of the people. Yet they did. ‘They read 
into Christ’s words tumult and insurrection. ‘The 
overthrow of the Temple would precede an armed 
attack on the community. Jerusalem would lie in 
ruins. ‘The peace of the nation was menaced, and 
Pilate would now have a case which he would be 
compelled to handle with firmness and despatch. 
Caiaphas’s spirits rose as he listened. ‘This was 
precisely what he desired. And yet he was cha- 
grined to notice that the Council as a whole did 
not seem convinced. He saw the advantage must 
be followed up. Although he was presiding, and 
was therefore supposed to be strictly impartial, he 
stepped into the breach. 

‘“‘“Answerest Thou nothing? What is it that these 
witness against Thee?” 

It angered him to. find his Prisoner was astute 
enough to be silent. That is a fortress often with- 
out a loophole for attack. Get Him into the open, 
force Him to speak, rouse Him so that He would 
lose His self-control—then Caiaphas felt he might 
secure what even Annas had failed to get: some rash 
or injudicious statement that would compromise 
Christ and settle His fate. Once more the High 
Priest spoke: “I adjure Thee by the living God that 
Thou tell us whether Thou be the Christ, the Son 
of God.” 

It was a bold stroke. ‘There was a touch of genius 
in the strategy. Caiaphas had placed Jesus on the 
horns of a dilemma. Either He must speak, and so 
commit Himself to the Messianic mission; or else, re- 


Cataphas, the Time-Server 35 


maining silent, discredit Himself in the eyes of those 
who already professed belief in Him. In either 
case, there was ground for Pilate to act with ruth- 
less hand. Rome had little patience and less pity 
for any who laid claim to temporal power, and thus 
challenged her supremacy. Any one who spread 
sedition or deceived the people likewise fell under 
her ban. Caiaphas waited. Would Jesus answer? 
Looking him straight in the face, the Master saids 

“Thou hast said. Nevertheless, I say unto you, 
hereafter shall ye see the Son of man sitting on the 
right hand of power, and coming in the clouds of 
heaven.” 

It required all the histrionic ability Caiaphas pos- 
sessed to conceal the satisfaction this answer gave. 
But he had not yet carried his point. With assumed 
horror and indignation, he sprang up in his place, 
and tore his robes convulsively in twain. 

‘He hath spoken blasphemy; what further need 
have we of witnesses? Behold, now ye have heard 
His blasphemy. What think ye?” 

The High Priest looked round the assembly with 
an air of mastery. He was inwardly exulting, for 
this was more than he had even dared to hope. 
While the councillors who had been inclined to treat 
Jesus with leniency, now saw that their president 
had in turn thrust them into a dilemma. There was 
no question about that. They were solemnly sworn 
to uphold the purity of their religion and the 
supreme rights of Jehovah, and now they had to 
choose between Jesus and their standing with the 
people. So reluctantly admitting the domination of 
Caiaphas, they assented to the verdict forced upon 
them: 


36 Cameos from Calvary 
“He is guilty of death.” 


Perhaps there were some who remained uncon- 
vinced. They may even have had the courage to 
express their dissent. For instance, it is difficult to 
believe that sincere men like Nicodemus and Joseph 
of Arimathea, were they present, could sit there 
without voicing their protests. But if any did so, 
their words were drowned in the babel that broke 
out. The Prisoner was condemned. According to 
their law they could stone Him to death for this 
offence, and yet, galling to remember, according to 
Roman edicts, they could do nothing of the kind. 
They must get the permission of an alien power to 
carry out their own sentence! ‘That may account 
for the brutality which marked this stage of the pro- 
ceedings. It was immaterial that the trial was ir- 
regular, or that there had been a flagrant disregard 
of the law they professed so jealously to uphold. 
The misuse of evidence has been mentioned; but 
the court itself could not be legally convened before 
daybreak. To what lengths will hatred go to secure ’ 
its vile ends! And one illegality followed another. 
This gross travesty of justice was supplemented by 
rough horse-play. The guards spat in the Pris- 
oner’s face. They flung the robe over His eyes, and 
then bade Him, who posed as a prophet of the un- 
seen, say who had struck Him. Revolting in the 
extreme, these honourable councillors met in the 
name of religion could look on at such a scene with 
tacit approval, and none seems to have thought that: 


. We do pray for mercy; 
And that < same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy.” 


Cacaphas, the Time-Server 37, 


Time was speeding by. Day was at hand, and 
haste was necessary if the veil of secrecy were still 
to be kept intact, and Jesus was led away to the 
judgment hall of Pilate. The disgusting marks of 
their violence were still upon Him, but the more 
disreputable the Prisoner looked, the better chance 
there was that the governor would dispose of the 
case without undue formality. Yet a grave ques- 
tion comes demanding an answer of faith. Why 
should these things be? Why should God permit 
His Son to be maltreated in this way? And then, 
remembering the faculty of free will with which 
He has endowed man, we see there must inevitably 
be the possibility of its misuse. Caiaphas, the em- 
bodiment of cunning and craftiness, is essentially the 
time-server. Like Annas, he misused his undoubted 
gifts of leadership. He could have asserted his 
sway over his fellow-men to reinforce the good. But 
he is not alone in that. Every life is fraught with 
tremendous possibilities. Whether it yields blessed- 
ness or woe is largely determined by choice. Man 
can decide in which direction he will pour out the 
energies of his soul. To live merely for the tem- 
poral involves moral deterioration; but to live for 
the higher realities means securing not only the 
unfading treasure, but also that life which is life 
indeed, and which shall endure for evermore. 


Ill 
THE GOOD MAN OF THE HOUSE 


“Ye shall say unto the good man of the 
house, The Master saith unto thee, where 
is the quest-chamber, where I shall eat the 
Passover with My disciples?” 

—LUKE 22:I1TI. 


We turn back from the tragic scenes of that early 
morning to the previous day with its tender 
memories and healing words. Jesus had expressed 
the wish to eat the paschal meal with His disciples, 
and two of them were despatched to make the neces- 
sary arrangements with the owner of the guest- 
chamber. At once we ask, who was he? This 
‘“‘sood man of the house” exerts on our minds all 
the fascination of the unknown. He also illustrates 
that which we are prone to forget. Many a loyal 
heart beats in an obscure breast. Many a noble 
deed is veiled in anonymity. It makes us the more 
eager to know this unnamed man who gave Jesus 
the hospitality of his home. 

The Gospels tell us just enough to whet our curi- 
osity. Our Lord was spending that last week with 
His friends in Bethany. The little town lay over 
the brow of Olivet, and for Passover purposes was 
reckoned to be within the limits of the holy city. 
The reason for that is evident. The influx of pil- 


grims at such times was so great that Jerusalem 
38 


The Good Man of the House 39 


could not accommodate them. Yet as can be under- 
stood, Jesus wished to celebrate that last feast within 
the confines of the city itself. It was fitting that He 
should do so. The Lamb of God, of whom the 
thousands of lambs sacrificed at that season were 
the type, must perforce be in the centre of holy and 
historic symbolism. Christ therefore instructed 
Peter and John to go thither and prepare for His 
coming. Here an element of mystery meets us. 
They were to go into the city, and to look for a 
man carrying a pitcher from the well. He would 
_ guide them to the unknown friend at whose house 
the Passover was to be observed. Yet it would seem 
an impossible task to find the right man? Not 
when we recall that such a menial duty as carrying 
water was usually performed by women. A man so 
engaged would be easily noted. But we meet with 
another objection. If this were meant to be a 
secret sign, would not one so conspicuous excite 
comment? Not at this particular season, for one 
of the men of the family was required to draw the 
water used for making the unleavened bread. And 
thus early in the day, this messenger would be one of 
very few there, and so would be readily recognized. 

These precautions seem elaborate, and yet there 
was a reason for them. This unknown admirer of 
the Master had previously offered the use of his 
guest-chamber, but it was difficult to forecast the 
precise movements of the apostolic company or of 
Christ’s enemies. Jesus knew plots were afoot. 
Already the cross had cast its shadow across His 
path. There was no doubt about the issue of that 
week, but when the blow would fall was hidden at 
least from the good man of the house. How should 


40 Cameos from Calvary 


he know whether the Master would honour his roof 
or not? It was he who suggested a means of com- 
munication. 

“Lo, Master, it shall be for Thee to decide if 
this privilege shall be mine. If I have no tidings 
of Thee before the day preceding the Feast, then 
will I send one who can be trusted, and he shall 
wait by the spring nigh unto the city. There let Thy 
disciples look for him, but let them not talk with 
him there before curious eyes, for it might cause 
some to learn where Thou wilt be. He too will look 
for them, and they have but to follow him to my 
abode. Then when they ask of me concerning the 
guest-chamber, I shall know that they are not chance 
strangers, but from Thyself. Yet they must needs 
follow him, for mine house is in a secluded spot, by 
the farther fringe of the city walls. Few pass 
that way. The better, therefore, will it promise 
Thee unbroken peace for that hour with Thy 
friends.” 

Jesus smiled at the man’s solicitude, miscon- 
struing His desire for quietude into fear of His 
enemies. His own wish would have been to have 
spent that last night alone with His Father upon 
the hills, that He might be strengthened for the 
ordeal which awaited Him. Yet that would have 
been unlike Christ. His thought was always for 
His disciples. They too had need of comfort and 
solace, and so He would lavish those last hours on 
them that together they might rejoice in the sal- 
vation of God. To this end, however, it was im- 
portant that their privacy should be undisturbed. 
Judas had shown signs of disloyalty that, hidden 
from the eyes of the rest, were plainly read by the 


The Good Man of the House 41 


Saviour. But by acting on the suggestion of the 
good man, the rendezvous could be fixed without 
any one but the two knowing its location. So when 
they received such explicit instructions, Peter and 
John seemed to grasp their import. They came to 
the spring as directed, and as they caught sight of 
a youth who raised his earthen jar with meticulous 
care, John touched Peter’s arm. 

‘““Methought it would have been a servant on 
such an errand, but by his dress, I judge it to be the 
son of the good man. Thinkest thou that this is he 
whom we seek?” 

‘Yea, verily. Didst thou not see the glance he 
gave us, as though he understood that we were the 
Master’s messengers? Let us follow him, though 
at a distance lest any divine our object. Our Lord 
would fain spend that hour without the company of 
any of Caiaphas’s friends!” | 

“Speak not of that man, Peter! I mislike his 
crafty ways. To think that the High Priest of 
Jehovah should plot thus against the noblest Man 
that ever walked the earth!” | 

The youth had proceeded on his way, and the two 
disciples as though intent on some affair of their 
own, leisurely took the same direction, discreetly 
allowing the other people who were now astir to 
fill the intervening distance. The way seemed 
longer than they anticipated; perhaps they were 
apprehensive lest their real mission should be dis- 
covered. But at last they saw the young man pause 
a moment, as though making sure that they would 
see him, and then disappear through the courtyard 
of a house. They walked unconcernedly past the 
entrance; then looking round to note if they were 


42 Cameos from Calvary 


free from observation, they retraced their steps, and 
entered the house. A man of middle age greeted 
them. Returning his salutations, they put the ques- 
tion to him, according to Christ’s instructions, and 
immediately all need for caution was gone. ‘They 
were escorted to an upper room where everything 
was in readiness for an expected guest. And they 
look round approvingly. The apartment was plain, 
but scrupulously clean. ‘The low tables set in a 
semi-circle had rugs laid beside them, while the 
brazen ewer and basins standing by the door, showed 
that nothing had been forgotten. 

‘And the charge for thy so fitting accommoda- 
tion shall be ...?” Peter had received no com- 
mand about discussing this, but he desired to let 
this city-dweller know that his guests, although 
provincial, were as business-like as any in the 
Capital. 

‘Give that no thought,” replied the host. “That 
shall be between thy Master and myself. At the 
evening hour, all shall be in readiness for His com- 
ing, and none more welcome than He to my roof.” 

Only part of their commission had been executed, 
for there were other preparations to make. It was 
late in the afternoon when the two rejoined their 
companions. Jesus seemed unusually quiet. They 
learned that He had been away for some time, rang- 
ing the slopes of Olivet as though He desired soli- 
tude. Yet that struck them as rather remarkable 
considering the opportunity the densely crowded 
city gave of reaching the multitude. Yet if they 
ascribed it to His dislike of the ovation His pres- 
ence might evoke, or even to sheer weariness, they 
were mistaken. There was a deeper reason. ‘The 


The Good Man of the House 483 


lights were beginning to twinkle from the casements 
as the company wended its way through the falling 
gloom to the Capital. The great Temple itself 
was enfolded with the purple draperies of night. 
But it was so cool now, a refreshing breeze blowing 
from the uplands as though the air were shaken by 
seraphic wings, that walking was a pleasure. Still, 
had it not been that the Saviour seemed set on 
keeping the Passover within the city, they would 
have preferred to remain at Bethany. Peter and 
John were in front with Jesus. They knew the way. 
(he others followed more or less querulously. Had 
the Master gone earlier when the people were about, 
the enthusiasm which had heralded His previous 
visit might have been rekindled. Something definite 
might have been accomplished. But they had no- 
ticed the same thing before. Jesus never seemed to 
regard the trend of events and the chance of win- 
ning men’s loyalty! | 

This was the mood in which eventually the 
disciples reached their destination. They found that 
the two had exceeded their expectations, for the 
arrangements left little to be desired. The spa- 
cious room, the air of quiet and coolness, made an 
agreeable impression, and grudgingly enough they 
admitted to one another that perhaps it were better 
to be there than at Bethany. At least they would 
not be worried with Lazarus’s friends. The ewer 
stood suggestively by the door, though none per- 
mitted himself to see it. Each was intent on who 
should secure the seat of honour next to Christ. 
‘And the fact that they were tired after a long day, 
coupled with the lingering resentment that Peter 
and John had been entrusted with preparing the 


44 Cameos from Calvary 


feast, must be taken into account. We are all apt 
to feel aggrieved when honours pass us by, and 
others no more deserving than ourselves receive 
them. So we can make some allowance for the 
unseemly wrangle for the chief seats which fol- 
lowed. Jesus did not seem to notice it; if He did, 
He passed no remark. But they were recalled to 
the solemnity of the occasion by hearing Him say, 
a few moments later, ‘“‘With desire I have desired 
to eat this Passover with you before I suffer.”’ His 
meaning was not quite clear; He was often rather 
enigmatical in what He said. How was He going 
to suffer? If He were contemplating some hostility 
on the part of His foes, that did not cause them un- 
due anxiety. He had proved too much for them 
before; He could defeat them again. But they 
take their places sullenly, if not shamefacedly. 
Then there is a further surprise as the ill-disguised 
dislikes are still muttered. ‘The Master rose, and 
walked to the door. At first they thought He in- 
tended to leave the room until their resentment 
died down. Yet when they saw Him lay aside His 
robes, and gird a towel about His waist, they un- 
derstood. The water uttered its mild protest as it 
gurgled into the basin. He bore it quietly back to 
where His disciples were reclining, and commenc- 
ing at one end of the semi-circle, He began to wash 
and dry the feet of each of them. 

They submitted in silence. Then as He came to 
the centre, they heard Peter indignantly exclaim, 
“Thou shalt never wash my feet!’ It was the old, 
impetuous Simon. Yet when he learned that unless 
he agreed it meant that he had neither part nor lot 
with his Master, he cried, “Lord, not my feet only, 


The Good Man of the House 45 


but also my hands and my head.’’ In due course it 
was the turn of Judas. If anything could have re- 
called him to a sense of right and duty, surely the 
touch of those sacred hands ought. Jesus knew the 
traitorous errand on which they had already been. 
He knew how swiftly they would run the paths of 
dishonour, ending in death. Yet there was no hesi- 
tation on His part; only the tragic sorrow of un- 
requited love. Then replacing His robes, and 
taking His seat again, Jesus told them the meaning 
of His-act. He had given them a concrete example 
which was to be their inspiration for coming days. 
It is not what men eagerly grasp that exalts the soul. 
Neither by strategy nor aggressive self-seeking is 
real greatness achieved. Only through humility 
comes honour, and by lowly service prompted by 
love is life made noble in God’s sight. 

The prescribed customs of the Passover had been 
modified by the passing years. The head of the 
family usually filled a wine cup for each one, pro- 
nouncing a blessing over it. The hands were then 
rinsed, and a dish of herbs, the unleavened bread, 
together with the paschal lamb, were then brought 
in. The Charoseth, a conserve of fruits, symbolized 
the clay with which as slaves their fathers had 
wrought. A second cup of wine was the signal for 
the youngest present to ask the meaning of the feast 
they celebrated. And to this the other would re- 
ply, giving details of the deliverance from Egypt. 
Part of the Hallel was then sung, followed by a 
third cup. While a fourth, with the rest of the 
Hallel and the blessing, concluded the ceremony. 
This indicates the probable order which the disci- 
ples observed that night, but there was a new and 


46 Cameos from Calvary 


deeper significance attached to it. When Jesus 
broke the bread, He placed a portion of bitter herbs 
with each morsel, saying, ‘““This is My body which 
is broken for you.” And as He passed them the 
cup, He quietly said, “This cup is the new testa- 
ment in My blood.” 

A hush fell on the company. Every eye was fixed 
on Christ’s face. For a moment, His heart seemed 
swept with the turgid waters a grief. Then He 
began to speak plainly of the danger lurking even 
at that table. One actually present would so far 
forget the demands of honour as to betray a friend 
with whom he had eaten. Even the restraints of 
sacred fellowship, and the bonds which love might 
have forged, would not keep him from his das- 
tardly object. And consternation was written on 
every face. If the foundations of the house in 
which they sat had been shaken by an earthquake, 
they could not have been more astonished. The 
traitor was abashed because his nefarious schemes 
seemed to have been discovered; the rest were 
astounded because the threatened calamity lay not 
in the gloom outside, but within the hallowed circle 
itself. Whom could Jesus mean? Peter signalled 
to John, sitting next to the Master, to ascertain 
who it was, and Christ answered the whispered 
question by handing a morsel of food to the treach- 
erous Judas. While that act means little to us, 
Judas knew its significance. It was the way by which 
a host showed favour to one of his guests. In 
this case it was Christ’s last appeal to any shred of 
chivalry and loyalty remaining in that sordid soul. 
Evidently the identity of the traitor was not fully 
disclosed to the others, or Judas would scarcely have 


The Good Man of the House 47 


left that room alive. With all their failings, the 
Apostles loved their Master. That is proved by the 
repugnance with which the mention of betrayal was 
received by them all. When Christ bade the traitor 
proceed quickly with his evil purpose, he was glad 
to escape from those reproachful eyes, and he went 
forth on what the disciples construed into some 
errand for the Master. Only two knew the real ob- 
ject of his going: Jesus and himself. 

The whole company breathed more freely. They 
did not know why. It was as though a cloud had 
passed from the face of the sun, and brightness and 
warmth reappeared. Christ seemed to feel the 
same thing. While He warned His friends of 
coming trial, and of defection that would bring sor- 
row to Him and shame to them, His heart was 
filled with love like the brimming wine cups which 
had passed from hand to hand. Simon was singled 
out for special counsel, and the earnest voice of the 
Saviour urged him to that finer loyalty in which he 
might also be the encourager of his brethren. 
Slowly the idea began to shape itself in their minds: 
Jesus was leaving them. Peter’s vehement assur- 
ances awaken no interest. Numb with grief and 
regrets for the past, they listen awed and solemn- 
ized. Christ’s tenderness is immeasurable. “Let 
not your heart be troubled’’—that is the keynote 
of the parting hour. The promise of the Comforter 
follows, and the hope held out that they shall be 
united again. It is only partly comprehended, yet 
memory is kind. When the poignancy of that ex- 
perience passed, like a sun-dial, it marked the hours 
of spiritual privilege. 

Such are the influences emanating from that Up- 


48 Cameos from Calvary 


per Room. But we turn now to seek the identity 
of this man who gave Jesus the use of his guest- 
chamber. Keim held that it may have been Joseph 
of Arimathea; others favour Simon the Leper. 
Ewald’s theory that we have a clue in the story of 
the early church is better founded. There is refer- 
ence to a young man, living with his widowed mother 
in Jerusalem. ‘They threw open their house to the 
Apostles, and in an upper chamber of it, the Chris- 
tians met for prayer and mutual counsel. That 
young man was John Mark, the evangelist. Pos- 
sibly his father was this devout admirer of Jesus. 
And what is more likely than that, when a messenger 
was needed to bring word that the Master intended 
to celebrate the Passover under that roof, he should 
be taken into his father’s confidence? It would be 
he who went to the spring, for Christ’s secret could 
not be entrusted to a servant. He would thus know 
the honour that came to his home, and the memories 
of that night would be ineffaceable. Later he be- 
came the intimate friend of Peter, the man he met 
that day, and had no small share in the Apostle’s 
work. We shall discuss this more fully in our next 
chapter. Meanwhile we allow the suggestion to 
stand. 

How much flowed from the simple act of gen- 
erosity shown by the good man of the house. He 
had laid his plans only for that one evening; the 
influence of those hours will abide until eternity 
itself. ‘That room saw not only the sublime deed of 
Jesus, washing His disciples’ feet, but also the in- 
stitution of that memorial feast, bridging the cen- 
turies, and binding His followers of every time and 
clime, into a holy fellowship of faith. While the 


The Good Man of the House 49 


tender cadence of those farewell words, recorded in 
the fourteenth of John, echo like heavenly harmonies 
in a weary world. In that room the glorious vision 
of the Risen Lord broke on their eyes. And like a 
noble stream, born and cradled among the towering 
hills, the Christian Church took its rise at Pentecost. 
Men gather from all quarters of the globe to visit 
an unpretentious house in Stratford-on-Avon, where 
in an upper room, the “‘myriad-minded Shakespeare”’ 
was born. Others trace with difficulty a narrow 
street in Bonn, where in a tiny chamber under the 
eaves Beethoven first saw the light. They go with 
reverent feet to a house in Tenth Street, Washing- 
ton, where Lincoln was borne after the assassin’s 
bullet laid him low, and where the fires which glowed 
in that great soul slowly sank to ashes. Did the 
good man of the house who succoured the stricken 
President foresee how many would rise up and call 
him blessed? No more than he who proffered the 
hospitality of his humble roof to the Son of God. 
We reach this striking fact: the lowliest service 
- rendered for Christ’s sake may have stupendous re- 
sults. The simplest deed of kindness may be in- 
vested with unfading lustre. This unnamed resi- 
dent of Jerusalem did a great thing without knowing 
it. Yetits greatness is none the less real. He acted 
well within his capacity; there was no nerving of 
the heart for some gigantic task. Except for the 
danger of harbouring the Nazarene it cost him 
little. And for us to place our resources at the com- 
mand of Christ and His cause, to give the welcome 
of the home-circle to one who might be swept into 
the eddying currents of temptation, to extend a help- 
ing hand or the heart’s sympathy to some soul in 


50 Cameos from Calvary 


straits, may achieve incalculable good. Gray missed 
part of the truth when he affirmed: 


“Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, — 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.” 


The bare truth is that the whole world is the sweeter 
for its life. Its fragrance helps to make the earth 
glad, while its beauty forms part of the colour- 
scheme of the universe. So it is with the consecrated 
soul. It may possess few gifts. It may lack much 
by way of brilliance or genius. Yet to use wisely 
and lavishly what God puts within our power, to use 
it from the highest of all motives, is to enable the 
Father to work out His purpose of good for man- 
kind. 

An old Scots minister toiled on amid much dis- 
couragement. No signs of success gladdened his 
heart. And though his people were indulgent up 
to a point, he felt his work was a failure. One day, 
however, a youth came shyly to speak with him. He 
had been moved by the simple preaching of this 
saintly man, and asked if he too might one day 
qualify himself for the holy ministry. The old man 
listened with sympathy and understanding; had he 
not faced a similar issue himself long ago? He 
advised the youth as best he could. He set his feet 
in the way of preparation, and aided him with his 
studies. ‘Then he saw him set out for Africa, called 
by God to the “‘other sheep” of Christ’s fold. With 
such power and success did that missionary labour 
that eventually the world rang with his praises. It 
remembers his name even to this day. Robert Mof- 
fatt stands in the front rank of courageous pioneers 


The Good Man of the House 51 


of the Kingdom. But the name of the godly man 
who helped him to climb the ladder of glorious 
achievement has passed into oblivion. ' 

Multitudes have been inspired by Christ to care 
for the loveless and despairing. And they, as Low- 
ell finely puts it, 


“. . . Thread to-day the unheeding street, 
And stairs to sin and famine known, 
Sing with the welcome of their feet; 
The den they enter grows a shrine, 
The grimy sash an oriel burns, 
Their cup of water warms like wine, 
Their speech is filled from heavenly urns.” 


To all this does the good man of the house direct 
our minds. We realize with new intensity that the 
mainspring of his action was his love of the highest 
when he sawit. With eyes as discerning as those of 
the merchant seeking goodly pearls, he found the 
Pearl of great price. He saw the beauty of Christ’s 
matchless life, and feeling its spell, he surrendered to 
it in lowly and adoring reverence. Whoever he 
was, this unknown disciple made the world his debtor 
by providing a suitable setting for the greatest mas- 
terpiece of redemptive love man has ever beheld. 
He has done more, giving us.an example worthy of 
emulation, for he is an outstanding figure in that 
company known only to the Almighty Himself: 


“.. That did their deed 

And scorned to blot it with a name, 

Men of the plain heroic breed, 

Who loved Heaven’s silence more than fame.” 


IV 
THE OWNER OF THE GARDEN 


“He went forth with His disciples over the 
brook Kidron, where was a garden.” 
—JOHN 18:1. 


EW scenes have laid hold of the mind with 
such force as those of the Upper Room and 
Gethsemane. Imagination has pictured those hours 
in fullest detail, Having sung the hymn, Christ 
and His friends softly move out from that place of 
tender parting. ‘The Saviour casts a lingering look 
round the apartment, and catching a glimpse of a 
figure standing by the portal, He pauses. It is His 
host, and He thanks him for the timely hospitality. 
Then the company fares forth. The hour is late, 
and the night strangely still. The city is wrapped 
in slumber, for the pilgrims are tired with their 
journey. Moreover, the morrow would be a won- 
derful day, and they would fain enjoy every hour 
of it. Only the distant barking of a dog or two 
disturbs the silence, except for the whispering of 
the night winds through the trees. 

The company is in no mood for conversation, 
though Jesus takes the opportunity of adding a few 
words of encouragement and counsel as they walk. 
But now the narrow path leading to the Kidron is 


reached, and they stretch out in twos and singly, 
52 


The Owner of the Garden yo 


towards the place where the garden lies, a black 
patch in the moonlight, on the farther side of the 
stream. Why did Jesus seek that spot at this hour? 
The disciples were tired out. The experiences of 
that evening had added to the strain of the day, and 
they would have gladly stayed in that room to 
snatch a few hours’ sleep. Peter and the sons of 
Zebedee may have suspected the reason. If there 
was any chance of Judas divulging Christ’s rendez- 
vous with His disciples, it was like Jesus to with- 
draw from a house which had given Him shelter, so 
that His host might not be involved. He did not 
wish such a man to be submitted to indignities or 
insult on His account. Yet out there, in the silent 
garden, they might elude their enemies, and at day- 
break they could get back to Bethany and then home 
to the north. 

That may have been their explanation; it was not 
Christ’s reason for going there. He knew what 
lay before Him. He longed for solitude, for the 
city could not give Him what He sought. The 
walls seemed to shut Him in, making it difficult to 
commune with the Unseen. Besides, with the fresh 
night winds playing about Him, with the indigo 
vault bright with its gleaming points of light spread- 
ing over His head, He might the better realize the 
Divine presence. 


“A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot! 
Rose plot, fringed pool; ferned grot— 
The veriest school of peace; and yet the fool 
Contends that God is not. 
Not God! in gardens, when the eve is cool? 
Nay, but I have a sign; 
”Tis very sure God walks in mine.” 


54 Cameos from Calvary 


The shadows lie deep as the company passes 
through the trees. With gracious solicitude for 
those who had been, on the whole, so staunch and 
true, who had endured the fatigue of the day for 
His sake, Jesus bids them rest. ‘‘Sit ye here while 
I go and pray yonder.” But turning to the three 
who had been closest to Him, He asks them to ac- 
company Him a little way farther. ‘They have 
proved the most discerning of the Twelve, and He 
feels the need of human sympathy as well as of 
Divine solace in that dread hour. ‘“‘My soul is ex- 
ceeding sorrowful, even unto death: tarry ye here 
and watch with Me.” He sees them settle them- 
selves with their backs against the trees, and then 
moving away a few paces, kneels to pray. The re- 
demptive mission on which He had come is now 
reaching its culmination. The bitterness of His cup 
none but He could know. It was not the fear of 
death, nor of the excruciating agonies of crucifixion 
from which He shrank. There was a significance in 
His sacrifice that no mind can probe. He, the sin- 
less One, was voluntarily identified with stricken and 
sinning humanity. ‘The grief which its wayward- 
ness caused to God was laid on Him. And He was 
to reveal the Divine love for the lost by a unique 
sacrifice inspired by the Eternal Himself. 

The moon throws a pattern of fretted silver 
through the grove. Its light falls on the uplifted 
face, showing the agony through which the Saviour 
of the world is passing. As He prays aloud, a few 
sentences are carried to the ears of the three, and 
their hearts swell with sympathy. But these men 
are also weary. The day has been exacting, and 


The Owner of the Garden ay, 


nature will have her way. ‘The rustling leaves, the 
hint of perfume from the sleeping flowers, and the 
scent of the olive trees, lull them to sleep. Then 
they feel the touch of a hand; it is Jesus. They 
bestir themselves, confident they had closed their 
eyes only for a minute. One of them had declared 
his willingness to die for his Lord, and perhaps 
Christ’s words conveyed more to him than to the 
other two. ‘What, could ye not watch with Me 
one hour? Watch and pray!” And a second time 
He goes forward to lift His burdened soul to the 
Infinite. Returning later, He finds all three fast 
asleep again, but He understands their weariness, 
and for the third time withdraws. His agony is in- 
tense. The perspiration forms in great beads on the 
sacred face, and there comes one to minister to the 
Son of God. 

Suddenly the three awaken. Jesus stands before 
them, and they hear Him saying, ‘Sleep on, now, 
and take your rest: behold the hour is at hand, and 
the Son of man is betrayed into the hands of sin- 
ners.” They know what has roused them. It was 
not Christ’s voice. The gleam of lanterns and 
torches, the noise of feet stumbling through the un- 
dergrowth in spite of attempts at secrecy, suggest 
danger. ‘‘Betrayed?’’ Peter jumped to his feet at 
the word. Not if he could prevent it! He under- 
stood it all now. That scheming villain, Judas, 
warmed like a viper in the Master’s breast, had 
followed expecting to find them asleep. Doubtless 
he hoped to take Jesus unawares, but he would dis- 
cover his mistake. And as Peter reasoned, he recog- 
nized the form of Iscariot separating from the rest. _ 





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56 Cameos from Calvary 


With a kiss of salutation he took his stand by the 
Master’s side as though it were just the most natural 
thing to do. 

“Friend, wherefore art thou come?” Peter 
listened amazed. Did not Christ perceive this fel- 
low’s hypocrisy? Now, if He had said, “Fiend!” 
. . . Peter was sure of treachéry, and as another 
stepped forward to seize Christ’s wrist, his sword 
leapt out. He dealt the fellow a swinging blow 
which would have cloven his skull had he not veered 
swiftly aside. As it was, the man’s ear was almost 
severed. But Christ, pausing first to heal the wound, 
turned to the emissaries of the priests. Why had 
they come out against Him with staves as though 
He were a common malefactor? Violence was un- 
necessary. If they sought to arrest Him, then His 
friends should be allowed to leave without hin- 
drance. Probably the Apostles had also been taken 
prisoners, but Christ’s intervention was effectual, 
and they took immediate refuge in flight. Mean- 
while, a scuffle was going on in another part of the 
garden. Some of the more alert among the guards 
had caught a glimpse of a white garment, and set 
out to investigate. Cautiously approaching the spot, 
they came on a youth, partly hidden in a hollow, and 
screened by the overhanging branches. They 
pounced on him, but he was too quick. Slipping out 
of the garment they seized, he fled, leaving it in 
their hands. 

The weird scene has ended. ‘The sound of foot- 
steps dies away. The strange stillness of the gar- 
den is intensified, even as its darkness, now that the 
torches no longer gleam. We linger alone under 
those dim arches, deep questions rising in our hearts. 


The Owner of the Garden 57 


We know why Jesus came here, but who was it that 
gave Him permission and to whom did the garden 
belong? Who invited Him to use it as a retreat 
from the blistering heat of day, and as an oratory 
by night? ‘The questions are not of primary im- 
portance, except that everything concerning Christ is 
of interest tous. ‘he answers are linked with what 
has gone before. Perhaps the young man who 
escaped from his captors might be able to solve the 
mystery. Who was he, and why had he come to the 
same place? 

As we have pointed out, the information at our 
disposal indicates the father of John Mark as the 
owner of the guest-chamber. He was a man of sub- 
stance. His house was near Gethsemane, just across 
the Kidron, and what is more probable than that he 
also was the proprietor of this olive grove? Stand- 
ing on the slopes of Olivet, his industry would be 
carried on in this plot of land. Perhaps he had be- 
come familiar with the figure of Jesus, teaching in 
the Temple on some earlier occasion, and seeing Him 
pausing for rest beneath the shady trees bordering 
the estate, this man had given Jesus a standing 
invitation to use his olive garden whenever He 
wished. So it became Christ’s favourite resort when 
in the neighbourhood. But how can we determine 
whether this was indeed Mark’s father or not? We 
have only to look in another direction for our war- 
rant. It will be recalled that Paul’s companion on 
one of his missionary tours was Barnabas, who took 
with him his nephew, John Mark. For some reason, 
the latter did not complete the journey, and he 
afterwards became the associate of Peter, whose ac- 
quaintance, we suggest, he had made before that 


58 Cameos from Calvary 


memorable Passover. ‘The Gospel of Mark en- 
shrines Peter’s recollections of the Saviour’s life, 
and a tradition which can be traced as far back as 
Papias describes Mark as the hermeneutes of the 
Apostle—his interpreter or amanuensis. Certainly, 
the two were on the most intimate terms, and Peter 
speaks of him as “‘my son.” 

This is even more striking: It is only in Mark’s 
account of what occurred in the garden that the at- 
tempted capture of the young man is narrated. 
Even then it seems so trivial and irrelevant that it is 
surprising to find it included in the story of Christ’s 
arrest. The explanation is that it was of the great- 
est interest, at any rate, to the writer himself. 
Moreover, a tradition current in the early Church 
was that Mark was known as the “‘Stump-fingered.”’ 
We piece these details together. If it were the son 
of the good man of the house who met the disciples 
at the spring, he would be filled with curiosity re- 
garding this wondrous Galilean. The mysterious 
arrangements and the secret conclave in the upper 
room, would appeal to the youthful mind. And 
when he saw the party disperse after the meal, he 
followed to see what was about to happen. He 
knew every inch of the garden. Concealing himself 
among the trees, and recalling some ef the grave 
hints his father had let fall, he waited there, an 
unseen spectator. 

No thoughtful reader of the Gospels can study 
the accounts of that hour without being puzzled 
about another matter. If the disciples were all 
asleep while Jesus prayed, how was it that they 
knew the burden of His petitions? His words are 
recorded. Further, we are told that He repeated 


The Owner of the Garden 59 


the plea that the cup might be allowed to pass, and 
the great prayer set forth in the seventeenth of John 
is also preserved. Admittedly, some of our Lord’s 
supplications were heard by the three; but there can 
be little doubt that they later availed themselves of 
another source of information for some of their par- 
ticulars. Our only ground for the theory is its rea- 
sonable probability, but we afirm that their in- 
formant must have been John Mark. 

Again, why was he called Stump-fingered? ‘The 
chances are that in the mélée his thumb was severed 
by a knife. He could not conceal the matter from 
his family. The father might upbraid him, while 
secretly proud of his son’s part in that night’s events. 
And when he later became attached to the Apostles, 
he would admit the share he had been permitted to 
take. His personal knowledge of what Christ en- 
dured, would also add to his prestige. When in 
after days he came to write the stories which Peter 
related to frequent audiences, giving them order 
and sequence, we can understand why he inserted 
this incident which marked the beginning of his 
discipleship. 

But it is hard to imagine what were his feelings 
as he listened to the Man of Sorrows in that hour. 
Yet that experience made an indelible impression 
on his young soul. The example of his parents had 
already prepared the way for that reverence with 
which he came to regard Jesus. While parental in- 
fluence is at a discount in the present day, more 
may be wrought by it than can be demonstrated. 
The love Christ inspired in the soul of Mark’s 
father, the veneration with which Jesus was re- 
garded in that home, helped to shape the plastic 


60 Cameos from Calvary 


soul of the youth. And as we can see, beyond all 
argument, the first links in the golden chain which 
made John Mark the slave of Jesus Christ, were 
forged at home. 

Hazlitt has an illuminating passage on the effect 
of one noble soul upon another. ‘To be dazzled by 
admiration of the greatest excellence, and of the 
highest works of genius,” he says, ‘‘is natural to the 
best capacities and the best natures; envy and dul- 
ness are most apt to detect minute blemishes and 
unavoidable inequalities, as we see the spots on the 
sun by having its rays blunted by mist and smoke. 
. - . Lo admire and to be wrapped up in what is 
trifling and absurd, is a proof of nothing but igno- 
rance or affectation: on the contrary, he who ad- 
mires most what is most worthy of admiration (let 
his raptures or his eagerness to express them be 
what they may) shows himself neither extravagant 
nor unwise. The highest taste is shown in habitual 
sensibility to the greatest beauties; the most general 
taste is shown in a perception of the greatest variety 
of excellence.” 

And so the owner of the garden and the guest- 
chamber, in his veneration for Christ, did not fail 
of his reward. He gave, unwittingly yet neverthe- 
less really, a valiant soldier to Christ’s cause. That 
was so because Jesus makes such a forceful appeal 
to the young heart. At a certain stage of develop- 
ment, it responds to the heroic and chivalrous with 
amazing facility. Is not that just what Carlyle so 
vehemently held forth? ‘Great men, taken up in 
any way, are profitable company. We cannot look, 
however imperfectly, upon a great man without gain- 
ing something by him., He is the living light-foun- 


The Owner of the Garden 61 


tain, which it is good and pleasant to be near. The 
light which enlightens and which has enlightened 
the darkness of the world; and this, not as a kindled 
lamp only, but rather as a natural luminary shining 
by the gift of Heaven; a flowing light-fountain, as 
I say, of native, original insight, of manhood and 
heroic nobleness;—in whose radiance all souls feel 
that it is well with them.” 

Mark is proof of those words. And to the youth 
of the present day we need to hold up anew the 
example of the kingliest of men, the most chivalrous 
of leaders—Jesus Christ. We have over-empha- 
sized the lowliness of His life to the exclusion of 
the loftiness of His character. Too often we have 
imparted a concept of “Gentle Jesus, meek and 
mild,’ and have omitted the majesty of His superb 
manhood, His self-control in face of persecution, the 
valorous courage that marked the hour of His trial 
and apparent defeat. Gentle He is, but He is also 
great and glorious. And as the “Strong Son of 
God”? whom Tennyson hymns, the young heart may 
adore Him. 

Nor must we fail to note the eternal value of 
Mark’s humble duty which served to open the way 
to the high track of Christ’s service. Had he de- 
clined the menial task assigned that morning, fear- 
ing to become the butt of his friends’ jests, he would 
have missed his title to greatness. We might well 
ask: 


“Wouldst thou be a hero? Wait not then supinely 
For fields of fair romance that no day brings; 
The finest work oft lies in doing finely 
A multitude of unromantic things.” 


62 Cameos from Calvary 


Familiar though the words, they may be re-minted 
as current coin: ‘Do the duty which lies nearest 
thee, which thou knowest to be a duty. The second 
duty will already have become clearer. . . . The 
situation that has not its duty, its ideal, was never 
yet occupied by man. Yes, here in this poor, miser- 
able, hampered actual, wherein thou even now stand- 
est, here or nowhere is thy ideal: work it out there- 
from; and working, believe, live, and be free.” 


V 
FACES AROUND THE FIRE 


“When they had kindled a fire in the midst 
of the hall, and were set down together, 
Peter sat down among them.” 

—LUKE 22:55. 


ape trial before Annas was still in progress 
when Peter took his seat by the fire. What 
could have possessed him to venture there? Many 
explanations have been attempted; they must all 
prove inadequate because no one can be sure of 
all the factors which determine conduct. ‘The four 
Evangelists describe the scene, and even Mark does 
not minimize the gravity of Peter’s downfall. Yet 
the object of the writers is not to disparage Simon; 
it is rather that succeeding generations might profit 
by his saddening and humiliating experience. He 
had been so self-reliant, so egotistical. He says, not 
without a touch of impatience and pride, ‘“Though 
all forsake Thee, yet will not I.’ But when the 
wave of panic swept over those in the garden, 
Peter, notwithstanding his one flash of courage, was 
no more valiant than the rest. 

That may have had something to do with his 
presence in that circle round the fire. After the 
arrest, Jesus was hurried away for trial. It all hap- 
pened so suddenly that the disciples had scarcely 


time to realize what had occurred. And while the 
63 


64 Cameos from Calvary 


band led its Prisoner back to the city, the terror- 
stricken disciples made their escape by the other side 
of the enclosure. Peter had run blindly forwards 
in the darkness, making his way through the under- 
growth, until he emerged at last on a track leading 
to Jerusalem. ‘Then he stopped, breathless. ‘The 
incriminating sword had been flung away. But now 
he almost wished he had kept it. It was not that 
he had any definite idea in mind, though if the 
others had been at hand, one so impetuous might 
have attempted the rescue of Jesus. That was now 
out of the question. And though he could endeavour 
to justify himself, he knew that he had played an 
inglorious part, even as those with whom he had 
compared himself shortly before. He felt impelled 
to act; yet what to do he could not decide. Resum- 
ing his walk, Peter found himself near the Temple. 
The casements of Annas were bright, and instinc- 
tively Peter knew that Jesus must be there. He 
was at the mercy of His foes! 

If only he could gain admittance, and learn what 
was going on! But how? Even though the others 
had remained faithful, they could not hope to pre- 
vail against the High Priest’s bodyguard. 

“And yet, is not one Galilaan fisher equal to a 
score of these town-bred hirelings?’’ he mused. 
“Could I but set these fingers of mine about their 
throats ..20)." 

Footsteps were approaching, and Peter drew 
back into the shadow. All his courageous resolves 
melted away as he waited. Then he started. It 
was John, the son of Zebedee! He was manifestly 
startled as Peter stepped out. He stopped, and then 
asked in a subdued voice: 


Faces Around the Fire 65 


“What doest thou here? Whither didst thou 
flee? I have been searching for the others also, but 
none can be found.”’ 

Peter flung up his beard with a touch of con- 
tempt. “Those are questions I could ask of thee. 
But enough; tell me where thou goest.” 

John pointed to the palace. ‘To the house of 
the High Priest.” 

“Thou? <A bosom friend of thine is in the seat 
of power, perchance?’ It was the well-known 
Peter, and John winced at the sarcasm. 

‘This is no time for pleasantries, nor for barbed 
words which wound,” he replied sadly. ‘It is never- 
theless true that I am known to some of the house- 
hold. Zebedee, my father, hath long had dealings 
with them and so I have often been there in times 
past. It may be that even if we cannot do aught 
for Him we love, at least we may learn their de- 
signs concerning Him. I have even thought that 
I might intercede with some of the councillors on 
His behalf. But that is little likely; yet I will go.” 

“And I go with thee.” 

“Thou?” John stretched forth a restraining 
hand. 

‘““Aye; and why not? Am I not fit to associate 
with these in high places? Remember, thou also art 
from the Lake.” 

‘Thou dost misconstrue my words. I meant it 
not in that way. But I am known to them, as I 
have said. My coming will not be remarked upon— 
I trust not! But thou art a stranger, and it might 
be unsafe for thee to be seen within yonder por- 
tals.” 

Simon Peter thrust himself forward. ‘That, my 


66 Cameos from Calvary 


brother, is not thy concern, but mine. Let me but 
pass within the gate with thee as thy friend or one 
known to thee, and my blood shall be upon my own 
head.” 

Seeing that further argument was useless, John 
consented, and they made their way to the house 
of Annas. The wicket was drawn back in response 
to John’s knock, and the portress lifting her lamp 
to scan the face without, and surprised to see the 
handsome young fisher who had not been there for 
so long, readily admitted him. He made some ex- 
cuse for his companion, and rather reluctantly, she 
allowed Peter to pass. Once inside, John whispered 
that it would be unwise, even foolhardy, for Peter 
to venture farther, but promised if he would wait 
his return, he would ascertain if there was any hope 
of aiding their Lord. That indicates how little he 
understood Peter’s temperament. Peter could not 
remain inactive. To stand passive in the shadows, 
waiting for another to bring the tidings which he so 
urgently desired, was not the part for which he was 
fitted. Why should he wait in abject submission to 
John when he might glean some information for 
himself? The air was chill, but one who was ac- 
customed to sail the waters of Galilee all night long, © 
and who had also been a disciple of Him who often 
had “not where to lay His head,” would not be 
unduly susceptible to cold. But others were less 
inured to the night. Peter noticed them from his 
place of concealment. ‘They had lit a fire in a 
brazier in the outer court, and with hands held out 
to the welcome glow, he could see them talking to- 
gether animatedly. What the subject was he could 
well surmise. They evidently knew something of 


Faces Around the Fire 67 


what was transpiring, and the only way to avail 
himself of their information was to join them at the 
fire. It was foolish for John to urge caution, as 
though he were the only one who could act dis- 
creetly! And Peter sauntered towards the group. 

Rubbing his hands, like one chilled to the bone, 
he threw a careless glance of acknowledgment as 
they stood aside to let him draw near. For an in- 
stant, silence reigned. Prattling about a matter of 
priestly intrigue, as children love to discuss their 
elders, was one thing among themselves; it was 
another when a man who might be an informer 
joined their company uninvited. Peter was at a 
loss. This had not entered into his calculations. 
But while trying to devise some means of ingratiat- 
ing himself with those about him, he was aware 
that room was being made for some one else to get 
to the fire. It was the woman who had admitted 
John and himself! She held her cold fingers to the 
blaze, which lighting up her face, showed the softly- 
rounded features, and the wisps of hair which floated 
over her brow. ‘Then turning her gaze on the 
weather-tanned face of the sailor, on which robust 
hardihood sat enthroned, she smiled approvingly. 
Nor was it without effect. Peter was conscious of 
the admiration in her look. It was a relief to one 
under such tension to see a friendly face. With 
some word about the fatigue of her long duties, 
and the comfort of a handful of fire on such a night, 
Peter relaxed his guard. 

There is a passage in Bunyan’s Grace Abounding 
which bears on Peter’s need of vigilance. “I was 
much followed by this Scripture, ‘Simon, Simon, be- 
hold Satan hath desired to have you.’ And some- 


68 Cameos from Calvary 


times it would sound so loud within me, yea, and as 
it were call so strongly after me, that once above 
all the rest, I turned my head over my shoulder, 
thinking verily that some man behind me had called 
me. ... It came, as I have thought since, to have 
stirred me up to prayer and to watchfulness. It 
came to acquaint me that a cloud and storm were 
coming down upon me.” But Peter’s nature de- 
manded companionship, and this woman seemed 
friendly enough. She was not displeased to find 
that her attractiveness was not lost on the stranger, 
and as Mark’s narrative leads us to suppose, more 
in raillery than anything else, she said to Peter, 
“Thou also wast with Jesus of Nazareth.” Instead 
of the bantering reply she expected, giving the 
chance of a little coquetry on her part, he bridled 
up instantly. “I know not, neither understand what 
thou sayest.”” The maid flushed. She had not an- 
ticipated this. It had been said innocently enough, 
and as far as she knew, there was nothing to which 
any sensible man could take exception. Yet it was 
plain that, though she had drawn a bow at a ven- 
ture, she had scored a palpable hit, and Peter stalked 
angrily away. 

We now see the faces round the fire even better. 
They are all animation again. Peter’s withdrawal 
has not only removed the need for reticence, but 
has also given new material for discussion. ‘They 
eagerly questioned the girl as to his identity, and 
how he had gained admittance. And while she could 
tell them but little—that he had come in with one 
who formerly had business with the steward of the 
household,—they were free to draw their own con- 
clusions. The proceedings in the court of Annas 


Faces Around the Fire 69 


were very mysterious, and these men were naturally 
curious. The turn of events gave them a new in- 
terest in the affair, for here was one of the prime 
actors in this drama within reach. The dull hours 
‘of waiting were given promise of enlivenment. 
Peter had unwillingly revealed what he was most 
anxious to conceal. His sudden resentment at the 
woman’s taunt roused suspicions that would not 
lightly be laid to rest. And Peter knew it as well 
as those who heard his emphatic denial. Resolving 
to appear as though it were unimportant, he turned 
again to the fire. If he could have escaped from 
the courtyard without detection, he would have done: 
so; but within that fateful circle, he knew he must: 
brave the matter out. 

Presently his composure returned. None of the 
men took any apparent notice of him. ‘They talked 
quietly among themselves of things in general as 
though Peter did not exist. And he commenced to 
wonder how he might carry his former plans into 
effect. John was nowhere in sight. If anything 
was to be done, he must do it himself. But even 
while he was turning the matter over in his mind his 
heart sank. Another woman approached. Peter 
could see by the glint in her eyes that she had some- 
thing to impart. Evidently her fellow-servant had 
been talking to her, and she had been dared to make 
another attack on the adventurous fisherman. He 
met her gaze as she looked first into his face, and 
then slowly surveyed him from head to foot. There 
was more than a hint of insolence in her manner, 
and Peter was about to make some scathing com- 
ment, when suddenly the girl wheeled round to those 
who were closely watching her. Pointing an accus- 


70 Cameos from Calvary 


ing finger at the man before her, she said firmly, © 


“This is one of them.” 


ft was more than the Apostle could stand. He / 


had fought to keep control of the temper which 
threatened to master him. Now he could contain 
himself no longer. He forgot all his protestations 
of loyalty. His one object was to escape from the 
snare. Denial again leapt to his lips. The ac- 
cusations of another bystander were met in similar 
fashion. Fighting with his back to the wall, Peter 
flung every thought except that of self-preservation 
to the winds, and lie followed lie with facility. The 
tumult died down. His better self was in revolt, but 
it had no means of making its protests heard, and 
it must wait for a more convenient season. 

An hour passed. ‘There was no sign of the trial 
terminating. Peter looked longingly at the gate 
through which he had entered, yet though he was 
apparently free to go when he chose, he knew that 
the moment he tried to leave, he would be set upon. 
What should he do? He was ina quandary. He 
had ventured there, bent on recovering his lost self- 
esteem; instead he had fallen still farther down the 
slippery slopes of the abyss. He had been resolved 
on action; instead he was doomed to inaction. It 
had become almost intolerable when a new-comer 
appeared in the light of the fire. He had been in 
attendance on the court, and now seeing some of his 
friends around the brazier, he joined them. A few 
whispered words, and he turned his scrutiny upon 
the stranger’s face. It so happened that this man 
was a kinsman of Malchus. He too had been 
present at the arrest, and had witnessed Peter’s 


| Faces Around the Fire 71 


savage onslaught. As a kinsman of the wounded 
fellow he had vowed vengeance. ‘The torches 
showed him his man, and memory had stored the 
impression away in the gallery of the unforgettable. 
Fortune had now placed his enemy in his power. 
A cruel smile played round his face as he looked at 
Peter, and demanded, ‘‘Did I not see thee with Him 
in the garden?’ Peter’s blood ran cold. There 
was no mistaking the tones. The net was being 
drawn about his feet. He tried to force a laugh 
as he reiterated his ignorance of the whole matter, 
when he received a further blow from another quar- 
ter. ‘Surely thou art one of them: for thou art a 
Galilean, and thy speech agreeth thereto.” He was 
ensnared. 

The fact that he was a Galilean was inconclusive. 
There were numerous pilgrims from the northern 
province who had come to Jerusalem for the Pass- 
over, and they were easily recognizable. Their 
accent was peculiar, for the difficulty they found in 
pronouncing some of the gutturals made a marked 
difference between their mode of speech and the 
polished tones of the capital. So there are more 
ways than one by which a man may reveal himself. 
Appearances are proverbially deceptive, though 
Peter had been seen with Jesus. But he revealed 
his real self not only in what he said, but also by 
the way in which he said it. ‘[ennyson’s well-known 
lines admit that the spoken word gives only a hint 
of personality: 


“For words, like Nature, half reveal 
And half conceal the soul within.” 


qe Cameos from Calvary 


The firm denial with which Peter met the first charge 
might have convinced some. But others felt that 
he had taken a playful taunt too seriously, and he 
did protest too much! That was the more evident 
when challenged a second time. His growing con- 
cern and discomfort under the relentless eyes of 
his antagonists were indisputable when once he 
began to buttress his position with oaths and curses. 
And here the old self came to the fore. His tones 
showed the Galilean, and his frenzy one who had 
completely lost self-control. The habit acquired 
amid the rough fishermen, when the nets fouled or 
the wind became contrary, re-asserted itself, and his 
real self stood naked to those curious eyes. 

Then all Peter’s faith, his stout promises of 
fidelity, his professed love for Christ, amounted to 
nothing? He was yet unregenerate? Not so. 
Without condoning his sad failure or minimizing his 
wrong-doing, we seek to explain his fall that we our- 
selves may be warned. Note the successive steps. 
He began with self-assertiveness that soon led to 
self-praise. Peter had an unfortunate way of meas- 
uring himself, not with the perfect life of Jesus, 
but by the imperfect standards of his fellow- 
disciples. Excusable though it may have been for 
him at that stage of his development, it had fatal 
results. Self-commendation was followed by undue 
reliance upon himself and the qualities with which 
he was endowed, and he commenced to plume him- 
self unduly upon his invincible strength of will. 
Self-reliance is a sterling quality, but it must be 
jealously guarded lest it deteriorate into stupid dis- 


Faces Around the Fire 73 


regard of those dangers which are never far from 
the soul. Its correlative virtue is reliance upon 
God. Edinburgh Castle was captured only once 
in its long history, and then it was not by direct 
assault, but by strategy. It was not on its accessible 
side, but where it was thought to be impregnable. 
Under cover of darkness, the foe scaled the precipi- 
tous rocks on which the fortress is perched, and the 
position was taken. The same thing was true of 
Wolfe’s attack on Quebec. The garrison carefully 
manned every vulnerable point in the defences, but 
under cover of night and with muffled oars, Wolfe’s 
force crossed the St. Lawrence above the strong- 
hold. Then drifting noiselessly downstream, they 
disembarked at the foot of the Heights of Abraham. 
They crept up the rock-face, nerved to keep their 
precarious foothold only by the courage of their 
intrepid leader. Slowly mustering on the craggy 
eminence, at daybreak they launched their furious 
attack on the defenders, who, taken by surprise, 
found their valiant resistance unavailing, and the 
victory was won. 

Peter’s defence was woefully inadequate. His 
fall was equally humiliating. No one realized it 
more than he. He would have given his life to 
recall those words almost as soon as they had left 
his lips. Yet so far had he been driven by bom- 
bastic pride that, in lies and oaths, he had to cover 
his shameful retreat. ‘There had been a lack of 
vigilance. He had allowed himself to get out of 
touch with Jesus Christ, and so defeat resulted. 
In Kipling’s Plain Tales from the Hills we find that 
which, in part, explains Peter’s defeat. 





see 


74 Cameos from Calvary 


“Tt was not in the open fight 
We threw away the sword, 
But in the lonely watching 
In the darkness by the ford. 


“The waters lapped, the night-wind blew, 
Full-armed the Fear was born and grew, 
And we were flying ere we knew 

From Panic in the night.” 


Meanwhile the company round the brazier saw a 
defeated soul, and they exulted in the fact that they 
were no longer mere passive onlookers at that hour 
of destiny. Perhaps there were some who had mis- 
givings. For instance, the maid who had twitted 
Peter about his friendship for Jesus had no idea 
what her words would entail. And we might pass 
her over as an unconscious accessory to Peter’s 
downfall but for one fact: untold mischief is often 
done by irresponsible chatter. Her feelings can be 
imagined as she looked at the remorseful face of 
this strong man. Yet regret could not undo the 
harm she had done. 


w It is related that a woman, from whose faculty 


for gossip no reputation was safe, was at last 
brought to book by her parish priest. He undertook 
to teach her a lesson. As penance for her wrong- 
doing, she was ordered to take a hundred small 
feathers, and to drop them one by one as she walked 
from one milestone to the next. That did not seem 
an irksome task. But on her return, she was to 
collect them again, and to count them out before her 
spiritual adviser. A woe-begone figure stood before 
the austere man some hours later. She had only a 
few feathers to show, for the wind sprang up as 


Faces Around the Fire 75 


she walked, and many of the feathers had gone. 
‘You see, my daughter, what this means? Your 
words, lightly spoken, are even as the feathers you 
dropped by the way. They are carried far beyond 
hope of recovery, and find lodgment where they 
can never be traced.’’ There is a warning also in 
Carleton’s, The First Settler’s Story. The husband 
had spoken harshly to his young wife about the 
cows which had strayed. He left in a temper, only 
to find on his return that she had gone forth in a 
violent storm to find them. Exhausted, she gets 
back to his door only to die, and he says: 


“Boys flying kites, haul in their white-winged birds: 
You can’t do that way when you're flying words. 
‘Careful with fire’ is good advice we know; 
‘Careful with words’ is ten-times doubly so. 
‘Thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead, 
But God Himself can’t kill them once they’re said.” 


Yet Peter is not the only figure about that fire 
with a message for us. That friend of Malchus 
shows the need for a forgiving spirit. Friendship is 
a priceless thing; but to cherish the desire for petty 
revenge in friendship’s name, especially when there 
is no just ground for it, is despicable. Malchus had 
been healed by Jesus. In reality, he had suffered 
little, and, moreover, Peter was in other hands. 
The fierce remorse which came to him was punish- 
ment for all his misdeeds. Robert Louis Stevenson 
reminds us, in his Vailima Prayers, of a better way. 
“Offenders ourselves, give us grace to accept and to 
forgive offenders.” While One greater than he 
taught His friends to pray, “Forgive us our tres- 
passes as we forgive them that trespass against us.”’ 


76 Cameos from Calvary 


The other parties to Peter’s overthrow may be dis- 
missed with a word. They show unreasoning hos- 
tility, an officious love of fault-finding that are be- 
neath contempt. ‘The barbarism of a man-hunt is 
there, as unlovely as its modern equivalent of pull- 
ing an adversary to pieces simply because he dares 
to have opinions different from our own. 

Yet while we escape from these who rejoiced in 
Peter’s shame, we cannot but look again at the 
retreating form of the Apostle. The first stage of 
Christ's examination had come to anend. He had 
been sent in charge of the guards across the court- 
yard to the house of Caiaphas, and the bustle and 
confusion of the dispersing officials caused Peter to 
turn. His eyes met those of his Divine Master. 
Something in Christ’s look melted his heart. The 
true man now stands revealed, for “‘Peter went out 
and wept bitterly.” The tender plant of Penitence 
springs from the soil only under gracious influences. 
Had Christ unloosed the lightnings of righteous in- 
dignation upon that hapless disciple, what would 
have been the result? Had He upbraided him for 
his faithlessness, would Peter have been moved as 
he was? It would have meant the end of his apos- 
tolic career. All hope of better things would have 
been extinguished. But in Christ’s face, Peter read 
two vital facts: What he was to Jesus, and what 
Jesus was to him. He had yet to traverse a lonely 
way. True penitence is costly indeed. But ulti- 
mately love triumphed and a worthier disciple 
emerged. 

Hazlitt speaks of a meeting he had with Lamb, 
Holcroft, and Coleridge, at which the two latter 
were arguing which were the better—man as he 


Faces Around the Fire vari 


was, or man as he isto be. ‘Give me,’’ said Lamb 
with emphasis, “man as he is not to be.”’ The gentle- 
ness of Christ did more to win Peter to a better 
course than any severe measures could have done. 
While denunciations of sin may be justifiable, they 
seldom can sever a man from his unhappy past, or 
lift him to that plane of life on which the future 
may be redeemed. High explosives may splinter 
part of an iceberg; only the genial sun and the warm 
seas can melt it. Love is gracious in its operation, 
but its force is mighty. And the splendid place 
Peter subsequently filled was due entirely to the 
compassion and comprehension of Christ. The fire 
had done its work; the gold was refined, the dross 
consumed. No longer ashamed of his Master, no 
longer denying Him, but rather glorying in His 
saving grace, Peter at last came to that day when, 
melted by a look and captured by His love, the 
Risen Christ dominated his life for ever. 


VI 
PILATE, THE IRRESOLUTE 


“When the morning was come, all the 
chief priests and elders of the people took 
counsel against Jesus.to put Him to death: 
and when they had bound Him, they led 
Him away, and delivered Him to Pontius 
Pilate, the governor.” 

—MaAr}rvT. 27: 1-2. 


eit Sneny of gold shot across the empurpled east 
as Pilate went forth. He was angry—angry 
not only with those who had sent word that a case 
of great urgency was set for hearing, but also with 
himself that he had to do the bidding of these bar- 
barians. Patrician as he was, he had nothing but 
contempt for these of plebeian stock. The repre- 
sentative of the conqueror, he detested the subject 
race over which he ruled. ‘The air of superiority 
with which they always met him moved him at times 
almost to frenzy, for with their spurious piety, their 
whimsical superstitions and customs, they were con- 
stantly setting their opinions against his, and even 
criticizing his administration. Already there had 
been trouble. Bigotry and jealous regard for what 
they were pleased to term their rights had been at 
the root of it. The unreasoning prejudice in the 
Jewish mind against all effigies and supposedly 
idolatrous emblems had been, in Pilate’s judgment, 
78 


\ 


Pilate, the Irresolute 79 


weakly tolerated by Rome. Consequently, the fig- 
ures of the god-emperor adorning the standards of 
the army were removed before they were carried 
into Jerusalem. Pilate who was appointed by 
Tiberius in A.D. 26, determined soon after he took 
office to break down this opposition. He ordered 
that the standards should be borne into the city 
just as they were, though he took the precaution of 
seeing that it was done by night. The outcry which 
followed amazed him. The fanatical people pleaded 
and wept. He resolved to cure their stupidity, and 
his soldiers surrounded the crazed company with 
the object of terrorizing the people. But they pros- 
trated themselves before the drawn swords, ready 
to be martyred rather than abandon their protest. 
They were obdurate. And Pilate’s tactlessness was 
followed by acquiescence which was interpreted as 
weakness. The standards were withdrawn, and 
taken back to Cesarea; the people had won. An- 
other incident shows a similar thing. He had 
planned to build an aqueduct for the city. This was 
laudable enough in itself. But the governor’s mis- 
take was, however, that he sought to meet the cost 
not from the imperial exchequer, not even from ad- 
ditional taxation, but from the funds of the Temple. 

Anatole France makes Pilate describe it to his 
friend, Lamia, in this way: ‘‘When for my sins I 
was appointed governor of Judza, I conceived the 
idea of furnishing Jerusalem with an abundant 
supply of pure water by means of an aqueduct... . 
The architects and the workmen had their instruc- 
tions. I gave orders for the commencement of 
operations. But far from viewing with satisfaction 
the construction of that conduit, which was intended 


80 Cameos from Calvary 


to carry to their town upon its massive arches not 
only water, but health, the inhabitants of Jerusalem 
gave vent to lamentable outcries. They gathered 
tumultuously together, exclaiming against the sacri- 
lege and impiousness, and hurling themselves upon 
the workmen, scattered the very foundation stones. 
Can you picture to yourself, Lamia, a filthier set of 
barbarians? Nevertheless, Vitellius decided in their 
favour, and I received orders to put a stop to the 
work.” Luke also records that some of the people 
told Jesus ‘‘of the Galileans whose blood Pilate had 
mingled with their sacrifices.” And we have abun- 
dant evidence that his rule was of the sternest and 
most pitiless kind when his plans were thwarted. 
The Procurator was not one who inspired love. 
His short-cropped hair and low forehead gave him 
a look of determination which had found ample 
room for expression. While the beady eyes, the 
thin-lipped cynical mouth, denoted one who would 
have few scruples about the means adopted to reach 
any given end. He had grown embittered with the 
years, meeting guile with cunning, and diplomacy 
with duplicity. His better self had become stunted, 
over-borne with the bestial and selfish, so that the 
finer traits of his character were almost extinct. 
And this was the man who awaited the pleasure of 
the Elders that morning. Would his mood be con- 
ciliatory? ‘The summons to convene the court thus 
early was not unusual, for the business of the day 
was often transacted between six and eight o’clock, 
before the heat became too intense. But to hear a 
case of this kind was another matter. He was well- 
informed as to what was happening; it was his duty 
as governor to know what the Jews had in inind. 


Pilate, the Irresolute .- Si 


And moreover, possibly the Galilean had been the 
topic of conversation more than once between Pilate 
and his wife. That would be natural. Such a Man 
Was interesting even to one of Pilate’s stamp, for 
apart from the Teacher’s character, He had done 
much to expose the subterfuges and hypocrisy of 
the Jewish leaders, and so would earn the gratitude 
of the Governor’s heart. And now, Jesus had fallen 
into their clutches! 

If anything were needed to add to Pilate’s re- 
sentment, we have only to recall the view expressed 
by the Elders that they could not enter the house of 
a Gentile before the Feast without being polluted. 
The patrician saw in this a veiled insult to himself. 
As if anything could defile that unwashed horde, 
that set of unscrupulous schemers! Yet in the light 
of his previous experience, he could not refuse to 
accede to their demands, and as they would not 
enter his court, he must go forth to them. The 
place of meeting was called Gabbatha—the Pave- 
ment. ‘This was an ornate terrace, covered with 
mosaics and joining the two wings of Herod’s 
palace, then the official residence of the Governor. 
And a group of the priestly party stood before the 
balustrade, together with some others who had been 
instrumental in arresting Jesus, while in the fore- 
front stood the Prisoner Himself. It was a motley 
assembly, and Pilate’s gorge rose. He had already 
considered his course of action, and having no in- 
tention of playing into the hands of this mob, he 
demanded in harsh tones, ‘‘What accusation bring ye 
against this Man?” 

The cudgels were immediately taken up. Pilate’s 
stern look indicated that this was not going to be 


82 Cameos from Calvary 


the simple matter the Jews had hoped. “If He were 
not a malefactor, we would not have delivered Him 
up unto thee.”’ 

So that was their attitude! The Procurator 
scowled. He was sensitive about his rights as ruler 
of this people, and this was a gratuitous insult. 
They had already heard the case, and having de- 
cided on their verdict, they came to him merely as 
an unpleasant necessity? ‘Then he would let them 
know how matters stood. ‘“Take ye Him and judge 
Him according to your law.’”’ The sneer conveyed 
in the words, ‘“‘your law,’ was not lost on them. 
Stung by the insolent bearing of this alien, they said 
more than they intended. “It is not lawful for us 
to put any man to death.” Pilate relaxed a little 
at this admission of their servitude. It sounded 
agreeable. He felt inclined to laugh. He held the 
whip hand, and they knew it. At the same time, 
he was not going to overlook the slight they had 
put on him in trying the case first. They had evi- 
dently condemned this Man to death, and now they 
called in the civil power. Yet when it did not suit 
them, they would not admit its validity! All they 
wanted was official sanction to wreak their venge- 
ance on One who had bearded them in their den! 
Pilate understood. So instead of disposing of the 
case, and accepting the impartial verdict of the 
Jewish court as they trusted he would, he took the 
veka line of examining the Prisoner for him- 
self. 

The second stage of the conflict began. No judge 
could arrive at a decision with any semblance of 
dignity or justice while that excited crowd yelled 
its demands. And, in addition, the charges pre- 


Pilate, the Irresolute 83 


ferred against Jesus were certainly grave. Yet it 
almost makes us despair of human nature when we 
see the lengths to which men will go. The priests 
knew perfectly well that the charge of blasphemy 
would carry no weight with Pilate, so they pressed 
their case with deliberate falsehoods. ‘We found 
this fellow perverting the nation, and forbidding to 
give tribute to Cesar, saying that He Himself is 
Christ a king.” Only three days before, Jesus had 
urged the payment of tribute, but that was im- 
material. They had stated their case. It was 
craftily conceived. If Pilate would not hand the 
Prisoner over without further parley, at least they 
would show the Governor that they held him in 
their grip. And Pilate saw their subtlety. Let him 
acquit this Man, and they would at once pose as 
patriots who, having denounced a rebel, had been 
set at nought. Philo says that some time before 
this the Jews had ‘exasperated Pilate to the great- 
est possible degree, as he feared lest they might go 
on an embassy to the emperor, and might impeach . 
him with respect to other particulars of his govern- 
ment—his corruptions, his acts of insolence, his 
rapine, and his habit of insulting people, his cruelty 
and his continual murders of people untried and un- 
condemned, and his never-ending and gratuitous and 
most grievous inhumanity.” If but a tithe of that 
indictment were true, we can understand the diffi- 
culties with which Pilate’s way was strewn. 
Although custom forbade the Elders to enter the 
court, that did not preclude Pilate from taking the 
Prisoner into the judgment hall if he wished. So 
face to face these two, so diverse and different, con- 
front each other. Concern can be seen in both. 


84 Cameos from Calvary 


Pilate is thinking about his own future; Jesus about 
the victory of the higher impulses which have begun 
to assert themselves in the ruler’s heart. \ 

‘Art Thou the king of the Jews?’ Pilate’s con- 
temptuous smile shows that he is inclined to pity 
the Prisoner. That this poor bound figure should 
be a king appealed to his sense of humour. The 
rough handling to which Jesus had been subjected 
had left its marks on Him. The sleepless night and 
its attendant agony had graven the sacred face 
deeply. And all combined to make any claim to 
kingship seem absurd to one who was familiar with 
the pomp and circumstance of emperors. ‘There is 
no doubt that Pilate looked on Jesus as one of the 
numerous deluded fellows who periodically put for- 
ward some pretensions to power. At best, He might 
be a brave and candid soul incensed by the shams 
of current religion. At the worst, He was perchance 
a misguided fanatic, more indiscreet than wicked, 
who cherished a notion that he was a descendant of 
some former royal house of the Hebrews. So in- 
dulgently, Pilate waited for the answer which might 
give him the cue for further action. 

“Sayest.thou this thing of thyself, or did others 
tell it thee of Me?’ The penetrating gaze of Christ 
was fixed on the shifty eyes before Him. His calm 
tones were disconcerting. Had He vehemently 
affirmed His kingship, Pilate would have known 
what to do. But he was not prepared to be ques- 
tioned by his Prisoner. He flamed up. “Am I a 
Jew? Thine own nation and the chief priests have 
delivered Thee unto me. What hast Thou done?” 
And Pilate smote viciously on the arm of his chair. 


Palate, the Irresolute 85 


But his hot words were unnecessary. Christ’s 
quiet reply disarmed His adversary. Were He a 
king in the ordinary sense, what would follow His 
arrest? Would not His friends and supporters 
have resisted with all the force at their command? 
Pilate was no novice in such matters. He knew 
what had occurred before when rebels had risen 
against the government. Blood had been poured out 
mercilessly on both sides. But there had been no 
such violence in connection with this Man. His 
kingdom was not of this world. He had come to 
bear witness to eternal things, and the temporal 
authority wielded by earth’s monarchs exercised no 
fascination for Him. And Pilate was perturbed. 
Lord Bacon begins one of his essays in this way: 
‘What is truth? said jesting Pilate; and would not 
stay for an answer.’ But is that correct? Pilate 
was in no mood for jesting when he questioned 
Jesus. Imperious and unstable though he may have 
been, he was impressed by this remarkable figure 
before him. In all his experience, he had never met 
one like Him before. And the examination came 
to an end. Pilate had made up his mind, as far as 
such a mind could ever reach any definite conclu- 
sion. He led Jesus back to the waiting Elders, and 
declared, ‘I find in Him no fault at all.” That 
was the deliberate judgment to which he had come. 

Pilate had reckoned without his opponents. The 
third stage of the enquiry finds them pressing their 
charges with renewed vigour. “He stirreth up the 
people, teaching throughout all Jewry, beginning 
from Galilee to this place.” It was the first true 
word they had spoken. Verily, Jesus had stirred 


86 Cameos from Calvary 


men’s hearts. He had re-kindled the dying embers 
of hope and aspiration. He had moved sluggish 
souls with desire for the good. Even the worldly 
heart of Pilate had felt the impact of that exalted 
character. But while they argued, Pilate caught 
a word that suggested a means of ridding himself of 
this thorny problem. It was “Galilee.” The north- 
ern province did not come under his rule. Herod 
Antipas was in control, and as he happened to be 
in Jerusalem, Pilate decided to remit the case to 
him. It could do no harm, and it might relieve 
Pilate of the necessity of seeing the matter through. 
Irresolute and undetermined, he felt that was an 
admirable course. 

The tumult died down as the Prisoner was led 
away to Herod, and Pilate sat in the inner court 
unable to dismiss the incident from his mind. 
Spectres of the past worried him. He need not ask 
what he ought to have done with Jesus; he knew 
that He was innocent. It was like the fiendish cun- 
ning of those priests to assail an inoffensive Man 
like that, especially if they had some personal end 
to gain. Pilate had faced the same hostility in 
other ways. And now he feels regret that he did 
not acquit this Preacher and let them threaten what 
they liked. But it was too late! It had passed out 
of his hands, and the responsibility belonged to 
Herod. Besides, it were impolitic for Pilate to act 
against the wishes of these people, no matter how 
he detested them. He had his career to consider! 
But his better nature, little though he had heeded 
it, seemed to argue that there were other matters 
that might be just as momentous as his own ambi- 
tions, even if his past made it hard to do right. 


Pilate, the Irresolute 87 


“Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, =~ , a 
And thus the native hue of resolution eal 
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought; it 
And enterprises of great pith and moment, 

With this regard, their currents turn awry, 
And lose the name of action.” 


The fourth stage was as unexpected as it was 
perplexing. Pilate had not counted on the fact 
that perhaps Herod would not assume the responsi- 
bility thrust on him. Yet he was no more willing 
to face the fury of his own ecclesiastics than Pilate 
was to risk an adverse report to Rome. The matter 
had still to be decided, and it seemed decreed that 
Pilate must meet the challenge to conscience and 
right. Try as he would, he could not avoid it. 

Again he faced the priests. They were getting 
restive. They understood that the Governor had 
sent Jesus to Herod for some reason of his own, 
and they suspected a ruse to free Him on technical 
grounds. But Pilate, concealing his disquietude an- 
nounced that, in view of the charges brought against 
the Nazarene, he had submitted the case for 
Herod’s judgment, and they had both reached the 
same conclusion independently of each other :—there 
was nothing which brought this Man within the 
scope of the law. Yet he was willing to be reason- 
able; he would have the Prisoner flogged, and then 
released. Pilate did not state on what grounds he 
based this illegal suggestion. He had no reason to 
offer. Yet his own lack of both principle and reso- 
luteness can be seen. An interruption occurred at 
this juncture. A messenger came from Pilate’s 
home, bearing tidings of a dream which had filled 
the mind of Pilate’s wife with the gloomiest fore- 


88 Cameos from Calvary 


bodings. She was apprehensive lest evil should be- 
fall them through any injustice done to Jesus, and 
her plea was that He should be allowed to go. 

Meanwhile, however, the crowd began a noisy 
demonstration. Incited by the Elders, they de- 
manded that the case should be terminated, and 
Jesus handed over for crucifixion. Inwardly trying 
to justify himself, and arguing that he had done 
his utmost, the Governor at last consented. He did 
endeavour to prove that their verdict was not his. 
Calling for a bowl of water, with one of the most 
lamentable pieces of pantomime which has ever 
marred the cause of justice or the pages of history, 
he washed his hands before them all, saying, ‘“‘I 
am innocent of the blood of this just person; see 
ye to it.’ Unthinking, they took him at his word. 
‘His blood be on us and on our children.””’ What a 
ghastly pretence on the one side; what an inheri- 
tance to bequeath to succeeding generations on the 
other. Is it possible to transfer guilt as Pilate 
sought to do? He might wash his hands, but he 
could not efface the stain upon his soul. The futile 
efforts of Lady Macbeth were no-more effectual 
than his. The doctor and the waiting-woman see 
the queen walking in her sleep. ‘What is it she 
does now?” exclaims the medical man. “Look how 
she rubs her hands.’”’” ‘The woman replies, “It is an 
accustomed action with her to seem thus washing 
her hands. I have known her continue in this a 
quarter of an hour.’’ And they hear the guilty 
queen say, “Yet here’s the spot . . . out, damned 
spot! out, I say! ... Here’s the smell of blood 
still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten 
this little hand.” 


Palate, the Irresolute 89 


Pilate swept the promptings of conscience aside, 
and handed Jesus over to the guard. The Victim 
was tied to a pillar, and His back bared. ‘The 
scourge loaded with lead or pieces of sharp bone, 
brought blood at every stroke. The Russian knout 
or the cat-o’-nine-tails were merciful compared with 
that. But as though this were not enough, the sol- 
diers entered into the spirit of the thing. Perhaps 
there were some old scores to pay off for Jewish 
scofing and insult, and this was a Jew. And with 
many a vile epithet, they flung an old toga over His 
lacerated flesh. Was Heaking? Then He must be 
attired in a way befitting His role. They twisted a 
bramble into a crown, and forced it down on His 
brow till the blood flowed. Then putting a length 
of reed in His bound hands for a sceptre, they 
rendered Him obeisance. ‘Hail, king of the Jews,” 
they cried, spitting in His face, and hitting Him 
over the head till the blood spurted from the thorn 
wounds on His brow. And outside, sat Pilate mus- 
ing over the evil chance that had brought him to 
that hour. Where had he gone astray that he 
should be thus made the sport of fate? He had 
done his best, even if it had been unavailing, and 
though his wife had interceded for this Peasant 
from Galilee, she could not know how involved were 
the issues. She would doubtless blame him just as 
vehemently were he to allow leniency to this Man 
to jeopardize his own position. He cursed the 
Jews who had placed him in this dilemma; he con- 
demned himself just as much because he had allowed 
himself to be party to their schemes. Just then, 
Pilate caught a glimpse of the Prisoner beyond the 
curtained portals. He was dressed like a king in 


90 Cameos from Calvary 


one of the old comedies, and an idea lit up the mind 
of the Procurator. If he were moved, Stoic though 
he was, by the spectacle of this forlorn figure, might 
it not have the same effect on the rabble? 
Motioning to his soldiers to bring the Prisoner 
just as He is, Pilate raises his hand for silence. A 
hush falls on the crowd. ‘Then came Jesus forth, 
wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe. 
And Pilate said unto them, Ecce Homo—Behold 
the Man!” And strange it were if any could look 
on Him without seeing that His claim to be a king 
in any temporal sense were absurd. Such was 
Pilate’s first thought. Yet as he looked from the 
faces livid with passion, and then at the majestic 
face of Christ, his words took on another mean- 
ing. It was as though he said, “Look for your- 
selves. This is indeed the Man! He has borne 
your bitter words and the more bitter scourging 
without a cry. ‘He has proved Himself to be worth 
a thousand of such despicable dogs as you are. Be- 
hold the Man!” But did the mob grasp his subtle 
meaning? With renewed intensity they clamour 
for His death. ‘‘Crucify Him!” Pilate’s patience 
is exhausted, and yet he still argues the point. 
Then a further accusation was brought against 
Jesus that having made Himself the Son of 
God, according to their law He ought to die. It 
was the first time this had been said in Pilate’s hear- 
ing. It touched a new chord in a breast that had 
been stirred by many an unfamiliar emotion that 
day. He was sufficiently conversant with religious 
lore to know that such a thing had been mentioned 
before, and, foiled on every hand, he made one more 
desperate attempt to deliver Jesus from His foes. 


Palate, the Irresolute 91 


Professor Stalker has pointed out that probably the 
Procurator divined that to do an injury to one of 
Divine origin might incur a blight that would follow 
him all his days. ‘‘Might not Jesus be the son of the 
Hebrew Jehovah—so his heathen mind reasoned— 
as Castor and Pollux were the sons of Jupiter?” 
And the message of his wife came back with re- 
newed insistency. Perhaps she had grasped intui- 
tively what he had missed. 

He took Jesus inside the judgment hall again, 
and demanded His origin. The silence of the Pris- 
oner filled him with wrath. Why did not Jesus 
reply? It could not have mitigated the guilt of this 
irresolute soul. Pilate already had sufficient light 
to show him the path of honour. To give him more 
would but increase his culpability, even if it did not 
dazzle his eyes. As Cowper expresses it: 


“.. . Lwas Pilate’s question put 


To Truth Teele that deigned him no reply. 

And wherefore? Will not God impart His light 
‘To them that ask it? Freely—’tis His joy, 

His glory, and His nature to impart. 

But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, 

Or negligent enquirer, not a spark!” 


Christ did remind him, however, that the power 
which His judge boasted was a pure phantom of his 
imagination. He who might have either condemned 
or released his Prisoner earlier in the proceedings 
had already made an irrevocable choice. And Pilate 
realized it. The set of the sails and the lie of the 
rudder determine the course. His subsequent effort 
to move the people from their clamant demands 
showed him that the die was cast. “If thou let this 


92 Cameos from Calvary 


Man go, thou art not Cesar’s friend: whoso mak. 
eth himself a king speaketh against Cesar.” And 
Pilate delivered Him to be crucified. 

Pilate the irresolute has gone down to history 
as one who could have done good, and yet did evil. 
With reproaches almost equalling those which 
gather on the head of Judas, he is reviled as a 
traitor to the best. Yet it might be asked whether 
any other course would have saved Christ from the 
cross? Even if this illegal proceeding had failed 
through Pilate’s firmness, the Jews would most 
likely have taken matters into their own hands, and 
have killed Him as later they did Stephen. But 
that does not minimize Pilate’s responsibility. Halt- 
ing between two opinions, he chose not the path of 
duty, but that of supposed safety. Although 
prompted by his knowledge that Jesus was the 
victim of malicious hypocrisy, impelled by the plead- 
ings of his wife to act justly, he took the line of 
personal interest and that which promised the least 
interference with his plans. Yet he missed the goal 
on which his heart was set. He was ultimately re- 
called to Rome, forfeiting not only the position to 
which he had held on so tenaciously, but also the 
respect both of himself and of every honest man. 
We quote Anatole France again, though this time 
with profound disagreement. Lamia is talking to 
Pilate of “a young Galilean thaumaturgist. ‘His 
name was Jesus, He came from Nazareth, and He 
was crucified for some crime, I don’t quite know 
what. Pontius, do you remember anything about 
the Man?’ Pontius Pilate contracted his brows, 
and his hand rose to his forehead in the attitude of 
one who probes the deeps of memory. Then after 


Pelate, the Irresolute 93 


a silence of some seconds—‘Jesus,—of Nazareth? 
I cannot call Him to mind.’”’ Nothing could be 
further from probability. The face of Jesus would 
be imprinted on the soul of this callous Governor 
until his dying day. His own fortunes were too 
closely bound up with that eventful period for it to 
be otherwise, and many a time through the subse- 
quent years, conscience like an avenging fury would 
scourge him with even more pitiless hand than that 
which, at his direction, had scored the back of the 
Nazarene. 

The fatal sin of irresolution dogs the steps of 
men to this day. Certainly their decisions are not 
fraught with the same importance for the race, and 
yet they vitally affect some lives for good or evil. 
Their hearts are confronted with the challenging 
figure of Jesus Christ, and yet they may palter and 
delay until the time for action has irrevocably gone. 
The soul is enthralled with fetters of its own forg- 
ing, and it is at last unable to follow the highest 
even when it might so wish. But a noble purpose can 
give decisiveness to life. Henry Ward Beecher re- 
minds us that ‘“‘A man’s purpose should be like a 
river, which was born of a thousand rills in the 
mountains; and when at last it has reached the plain, 
if you watch it, you shall see little eddies that seem 
as if they had changed their minds, and were going 
back again to the mountains, yet all its mighty cur- 
rent flows changeless to the sea. If you build a dam 
across it, in a few hours it will go over it with the 
voice of victory. If tides check it at the mouth, it 
is only that, when they ebb, it can sweep on again 
to the ocean. So goes the Amazon or the Orinoco 
across a continent—never losing its way or changing 


94 Cameos from Calvary 


its direction for the thousand streams that fall into 
it on the right hand and on the left, but only using 
them to increase its force, and bearing them onward 
in its resistless channel.” 

Such a purposeful life is inspired by the Gospel 
of Christ. And when that is crowned with industry 
and perseverance, none can set a limit to its use- 
fulness and conquests. Such resolution enabled 
Empedocles to sacrifice himself on Etna. It gave 
strength to Attalus in the hour of martyrdom, and 
to a frail girl like Blandina it imparted courage 
which made her able to cheer her fellow-Christians, 
though she herself was in torment. It nerved 
Palissy to continue his research until the elusive 
secret of the enamel he sought was obtained. It 
fired William Carey as he plied his cobbler’s tools 
in an obscure Northamptonshire village, again while 
he fitted himself for his larger task, and when he 
ventured forth to India itself. Recognition of 
Jesus as the Anointed of God, by whose sacrifice 
life comes to its highest development, will create a 
deep and enduring determination to do the right and 
follow the best. So shall faith vanquish every ob- 
stacle, till the conflict ends in Christ’s triumph, and 
the crown be won. 


VII 
THE WIFE OF PILATE 


“His wife sent unto him saying, Have 
thou nothing to do with that just Man: 
for I have suffered many things this day in 
a dream because of Him.” 

—MaAarnrvT. 27:19. 


Ww* there ever a more intriguing figure? We 
are indebted to Matthew for this glimpse of 
Pilate’s wife. Yet we could almost wish that he had 
told us either more or less of this woman who, at 
such a critical moment, intervened on behalf of 
Jesus. She is like a sketch in rough outline which’ 
we might discover in an artist’s notebook, evidently 
intended to be used later as material for a full- 
length portrait. In life’s haste, the work was never 
proceeded with, and the world is thus immeasurably 
poorer. All the data accompanying the sketch 
simply tells us who the subject was, and how he came 
to set the profile on paper. We turn it over in our 
hands, musing on its hinted beauty, and wondering 
just what she was like. Was she dignified and 
stately, as sympathetic as the face suggests? A full 
answer is out of the question, and yet we have some- 
thing to indicate what she would have been like 
had the portrait been painted. 

Tradition helps us very little concerning this 
woman. But it will generally be conceded that she 

95 | 


96 Cameos from Calvary 


is a pathetic figure as she is seen in the light of 
history, for she embodies in a singular degree the 
power of impotence. ‘The phrase seems contradic- 
tory. In one sense it is, and yet it describes Pilate’s 
wife in that hour. She is known to the historian as 
Claudia Procla, or Procula, and she has been 
honoured with canonization by the Greek Church, 
but beyond that, we have little reliable information 
outside this one verse of Matthew. 

Yet much may legitimately be inferred from that 
brief statement. She appears to be a woman of 
fine intelligence. She was deeply attached to her 
husband; in fact, her love for him is the key to the 
whole incident before us. That is plain when we 
remember that she was there with him in an alien 
country when she might have remained in her own 
blue-canopied Italy. The regulation to which 
Tacitus refers, forbidding governors to take their 
wives to the provinces they ruled, had been re- 
scinded, and that explains her presence in Jerusalem. 
Yet it does not account for the interest she displayed 
in what was going on about her. Instead of the 
self-centred, languorous patrician we might imagine, 
we find one who is appreciative of all she saw. The 
costumes of these people were as quaint as their 
customs were fascinating. [here was nothing like 
it in Rome, and as Procula looked through the 
palace windows, or was borne through the streets in | 
her palanquin, she was a close observer of the teem- 
ing life of the capital. She saw women busy with 
tasks which, arduous in themselves, were lightened 
by love. They plied their duties in the home— 
grinding corn, making bread, or tending little chil- 
dren. And she whose arms were empty, whose 


The Wife of Pelate Q7 


hands might not be turned to such humble yet holy 
ministries, looked wistfully and admiringly at the 
beautiful women of a conquered nation. Milton 
says: 


“For nothing lovelier can be found 
In woman, than to study household good, 
And good works in her husband to promote.” 


The entire round of life was entrancing to her. 
She was impressed with the. religious ceremonies of 
the people. The venerable rabbis, the dust-laden 
pilgrims who came from all quarters of the land, 
the joyous laughter of the children as they joined 
in the Feast of Tabernacles, were a source of never- 
ending wonder. While the solemn hush with which 
the Day of Atonement was observed, filled her with 
desire to know what these observances implied. 
Who were these Jews, and why did they keep these 
perpetual reminders of their history? She would 
ply her husband with eager questions, and even dis- 
cuss them with the officials of the Governor’s suite. 
Glad of an excuse to talk with such a charming 
woman, they would yet only partly satisfy her curi- 
osity. She would learn something of the great 
Jehovah whom the Jews worshipped. He was not 
one among many, like the deities of her own nation; 
on the contrary, He stood supreme. He had en- 
tered into a sacred compact with their fathers, so 
these Jews affirmed, promising to show them favour 
and shower blessings upon them. But with a cynical 
smile, the Roman courtier would indicate the value 
he put on such simple faith, considering that these 
people had lost everything that made a nation. Still, 


98 Cameos from Calvary 


their religion kept their minds occupied. That 
saved them from making mischief which would 
render the task of governing them even more tire- 
some. Whence had they come? Centuries before, 
they had migrated from Egypt. ‘They flattered 
themselves that they had some mission to fulfil, and 
their prophets had foretold a day when the sover- 
eignty, wrested from them by their foes, would be 
restored. ‘The Roman laughed outright. It was 
too fantastic to suppose that a handful of Jews, who 
had been compelled to bite the dust, should ever 
hope to oust their conquerors. 

Far from satisfying Procula, this reference to 
prophecy would start a new line of investigation. 
She appealed to her Jewish maidens for confirma- 
tion of what had been said, and they would tell 
her a story which would melt her womanly heart. 
Some thirty years before, it was rumoured that the 
Messiah had been born. ‘The news spread like 
wildfire. It was whispered in the bazaars. It 
passed from lip to lip among the Temple wor- 
shippers. There could not be anything in it, said 
some; tales like that had been heard before. Yet 
when they afterwards learned that Herod the Great 
had given orders that all Hebrew babes were to be 
slain, that put the seal of authenticity on the story. 
Procula felt the blood drain from her face as she 
listened, and then come back like an angry flood. 
She could hardly credit anything so heartless, so 
brutal, and at the first opportunity, she put the 
question to Pilate. 

‘But tell me, can it be that imperial Rome, with 
her boast that she upholds freedom and _ justice, 
could sanction such butchery ?” 


The Wefe of Pélate 99 


Pontius Pilate stifled a yawn. ‘Rome, most noble 
lady? That was not the work of our emperor, but 
of Herod, miscalled the Great. He was king here 
at the time.” 

‘Yea, but he was one of Rome’s satellites.” 

‘Truly! It is even as thou sayest. But he was 
also a Jew. Doubtless he had his own reasons for 
acting so. He may have feared this Prince might 
hurl him from his throne, for he had bought the 
position he held. It would not have been a colossal 
calamity for the land, methinks, if Herod had found 
his master. J am weary unto death of the whole 
brood! But a few days gone, that son of his, they 
call Antipas, sent to me demanding . . .” 

Procula’s eyes were blazing, while her breast 
heaved. “What became of this Prince of whom 
thou speakest? Was He caught in the net so craft- 
ily spread by that monster, or did the Child escape ?” 

‘“That, Procula, is more than I know. It is indeed 
reported that He did escape, and that He afterwards 
lived in the northern kingdom. However, that is 
not my concern. Galilee is Herod’s province, not 
mine; and truth to tell, I have more than enough to 
trouble me with the people at hand. Were it not 
that I well know Palestine is but a step to prefer- 
ment, one would gladly sail back whence we came. 
But enough of this! Thinkest thou not that I have 
a surfeit of their trickery through the day without 
having these Jewish matters disturb the peace of 
evening? Let us not speak of them. What dost 
thou think of the tidings we have of Tiberius to- 
day?” 

The one redeeming feature about Pilate was his 
affection for his wife. He might have said: 


100 Cameos from Calvary 


“.. Truly not the morning sun of heaven 


Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, 
Nor that full star that ushers in the even 
Doth half that glory to the sober west, 

As those two mourning eyes become thy face.” 


He was troubled by her solicitude for a race he 
loathed, but though he changed the subject, the 
matter was not closed as far as Procula was con- 
cerned. A woman of such fine discernment and 
intuition could not allow it to-remain there. Her 
enquiries were pressed as opportunity offered, and 
when Jesus visited the capital, linked to some of 
the strange things she heard through the gossip of 
her household, she may have ventured abroad to 
hear Him for herself. Certainly some word of His 
marvellous doings would reach her; if as we know 
there was at least one follower in Herod’s house— 
the wife of Chuza—it is not inconceivable that 
among Procula’s attendants there would be some 
who knew of Jesus. 

But all that did not close her eyes to facts nearer 
home. For some time she had noticed a marked 
change in Pilate’s demeanour. The lines of care 
were deeper than ever. She loved him devotedly. 
As Browning reminds us: 


“God be thanked, the meanest of His creatures 
Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, 
One to show a woman when he loves her.” 


Yet she was sensible that since his appointment to 
the Procuratorship he had steadily declined. He 
was not the same man. He had lost all the frank- 
ness, the gaiety of spirit, and buoyancy, which once 


The Wife of Pelate 101 


were his; he was soured and even vengeful. Oc- 
casionally, she persuaded him to talk things over 
with her, and manlike he was glad to unburden 
himself to a good listener. There is nothing more 
grateful to the surcharged heart than one who can 
receive its tale of harassments and worry. But 
Procula wished to know more fully what was hap- 
pening in the city. The wiles and unresting hatred 
of the Jews were a commonplace topic, and there 
was another subject on which she wanted Pilate to 
talk. It was the Galilean. What did he think of 
this Man? Was it true that He could work such 
wonders, and did the rumours which identified Him 
with that Messianic Child portend anything? 
Somewhat to her surprise, she found Pilate will- 
ing to discuss the great Teacher of Nazareth. The 
fact was, His presence in the city had much to do 
with the difficulties which were then confronting the 
Governor, and the situation was becoming acute. 
He had instituted enquiries, and though the reports 
varied, they were at one in this: He seemed in- 
offensive enough and was no man’s enemy but 
every man’s friend. Some said He was as different 
as could be from the loud-mouthed demagogues who 
had been a thorn in the side of authority before, 
and the worst that could be laid to His charge was 
that He had provoked the anger of the Elders. He 
had been too outspoken for them, showing up the 
hollowness of their professions, and the futility of 
their supposed righteousness; and with all that, 
Pilate was in hearty agreement. He certainly had 
a number of followers, but they were for the most 
part rough, untutored fellows, and while there had 
been some mention of founding a kingdom, Pilate 


102 Cameos from Calvary 


was assured that nothing need be feared in that di- 
rection. ‘That the leaders were inclined to persecute 
Him provided Pilate with a welcome relief from 
their attentions, giving them some one else to annoy 
instead of himself. But that was the sum of his 
information. 

The fact that Procula uses the term ‘“‘that just 
Man” in her message to Pilate proves that He had 
thus been discussed by them both; no further need 
was felt for distinguishing Him. But what effect 
would her husband’s revelations have on her? 
Would she not prosecute her enquiries with renewed 
zest? No hint of any personal regard for the 
Nazarene must escape her when talking to those 
of her circle. Yet in view of the canonization to 
which we referred, we wonder if she had come 
under the power of Christ’s superb life. If her 
soul had not been captured by this gracious Master, 
her subsequent action is the more inexplicable. 

That morning, when Pontius Pilate was sum- 
moned to the judgment hall, Procula was fully con- 
versant with his mission. Doubtless, he told her 
himself what was impending. Jesus was to be tried 
for His life. It was still early, and as she lay 
thinking over the crisis which had arisen, she fell 
asleep again. Her brain was busy though her body 
rested. She felt instinctively that two careers were 
at stake in that momentous hour. And in her dream 
she saw the Galilean, like a deer pressed by baying 
hounds, pulled down to death. The exultant cries 
of the hunters were heard as they swarmed round 
the bleeding form. Then to Procula’s horror, the 
face changed to that of her husband. He had 


The Wefe of Pelate 103 


fallen victim to the malice of the Elders. She 
started up with a cry, her brow clammy with fear. 
What should she do? It may have been more 
superstition than spirituality which caused her to at- 
tach such importance to her dream, but she could not 
remain passive, knowing the danger which threat- 
ened. Of course, she was assuming serious responsi- 
bility in sending a message to Pilate. It was not 
that she feared his anger; the bond between them 
was too close for that. It was rather that were it 
known that she had interfered with the administra- 
tion of justice, the peril she sought to avert would 
swiftly engulf her husband. ‘The Scribes and Phari- 
sees would have no compunction. The Governor 
would be called on to explain before the imperial 
authorities what was really indefensible. To permit 
a woman, even though she were his wife, to pervert 
justice was unpardonable. 

In Julius Cesar we have a similar picture of an- 
other Roman wife, scenting from afar the danger 
which threatened her husband. Cesar was due to 
appear at the Senate, but thrice in her sleep that 
night, Calpurnia had cried out, “They murder 
Cesar!’ It unnerved him, and sending to the 
priests, he asked them to find out what were the 
auguries for the day. They counselled him not to 
stir from his home. Calpurnia’s vision was related. 
She had looked on his statue like a fountain running 
with blood, and when he speaks of this to Decius, 
his friend, he adds: 


“These does she apply for warnings, and portents, 
And evils imminent, and on her knee 
Hath begged that I will stay at home to-day.” 


104 Cameos from Calvary 


He felt that womanly intuition saw what was 
hidden from reason’s colder eyes. And Procula her- 
self seemed to know that her dream had some basis 
in fact. The Teacher might be a messenger from 
God Himself, and this were a warning which must 
be heeded. ‘There is a passage in one of Maeter- 
linck’s works that throws some light on this. “It 
would seem that women are more largely swayed by 
destiny than ourselves. ‘They submit to its decrees 
with far more simplicity. . . . They are still nearer 
to God, and yield themselves with less reserve to the 
pure workings of mystery. And therefore is it, 
doubtless, that all the incidents in our life in which 
they take part, seem to bring us to what might 
almost be the very fountain-head of destiny. It is 
above all when by their side that moments come un- 
expectedly, when a ‘clear presentiment’ flashes across 
us, a presentiment of a life that does not always seem 
parallel to the life we know of. . . . Women are 
indeed the veiled sisters of all the great things we 
do not see.” 

Procula felt that nothing but evil could befall her 
husband were he to side with these plotters against 
One so different, and she shuddered at the dreadful 
consequences. A word from her might turn the 
scale in Christ’s favour, and a gross miscarriage of 
justice be avoided. Whatever Pilate lacked of 
moral courage or resoluteness, his wife certainly 
possessed. She saw her duty, and she was brave 
enough to face the thankless and difficult task laid 
on her. Even though she were moved by no 
higher consideration than safeguarding her hus- 
band’s honour and her own happiness, that were 


The Wife of Pzlate 105 


praiseworthy. Yet if we have read her true char- 
acter, there were other reasons. She would not 
have couched her message in those terms had she 
not sensed some grave issue—''I have suffered many 
things because of Him.’’ And there was also an 
indication that this step was required of her, else 
why the impression made by her dream? So she 
reasoned; and the message was sent. For the say- 
ing, “love is blind,” did not apply to Procula. On 
the contrary, love saw with clear eyes that if her 
husband were to be saved from irretrievable dis- 
aster, she must act. She had watched him through 
the years, entering into his ambitions with zest. He 
had set his heart on rising to the highest position 
possible in the empire, and when temporary exile 
promised promotion, she embraced it eagerly. But 
she had begun to ask if some things could not be 
bought at too high a price. Pilate was losing his 
very soul. His nature had perceptibly coarsened, 
and he had done things with ease of which before 
Procula had deemed him incapable. Yet her counsel 
and influence were ever on the side of the angels, 
and she still hoped that she might win him to a 
better course. 

We can understand her feelings better by turning 
to the mirror furnished in 4d Christmas Carol. 
Scrooge, still a young man, is talking with his fiancée. 
She has broken off their engagement, and, asked for 
a reason, she says softly: “Another idol has dis- 
placed me . . . a golden one. You fear the world 
too much. All your other hopes have merged into 
the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid 
reproach. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall 


106 Cameos from Calvary 


off one by one, until the master-passion, Gain, en- 
grosses you. Have I not?” And Procula knew it 
to be as true of Pilate. 

The effect of that message sent to him on the 
judgment seat can never be fully known. We see 
his brows contract. He is annoyed, for this tends 
to make a decision even more difficult. If Procula 
had these convictions about the Nazarene, she ought 
to have told him before, and not have left it until 
he were actually engaged in the trial. Now he could 
not well help himself! The masculine proneness to 
blame another, like Adam who placed the responsi- 
bility on ‘“‘the woman which Thou gavest to me,” 
came to the top. Truly, the position was delicate. 
The priestly party was urging its case with tireless 
persistence. How then could he act? Procula 
might mean well, but she was only a woman, im- 
pressionable and impulsive, and she could not know 
what he had to face. She thought he was in the seat 
of authority; yet he knew himself to be at the mercy 
of these implacable Jews—as much at their mercy ° 
as the Nazarene Himself! Side with Him, and 
they would repay his clemency in their own shame- 
ful currency. No; that would not do. He was play- 
ing for high stakes, and his losses were so great 
that he dared not stop now! And the case went on 
to its tragic conclusion. 

Then Procula failed? Not altogether; failure is 
only a relative term. She had made it easier for 
Pilate to do right, and harder to be untrue to his 
duty; and that can scarcely be described as complete 
failure. “A good wife,” says Jeremy Taylor in his 
old-world fashion, “is heaven’s last, best gift to 
man; his angel of mercy; minister of graces in- 


The Wife of Plate 107 


numerable; his gem of many virtues; his casket of 
jewels.” And Pilate realized that. If only he had 
listened to her before, things might have been dif- 
ferent. The influence of a woman is tremendous 
Plutarch depicts the baleful power which Cleopatra 
wielded over Antony. Once in her toils, honour 
and duty became only empty terms. And when he 
died on his own sword, his manhood had first per- 
ished in defiance of the high dictates of conscience. 
Delilah’s hateful influence over Samson is a similar 
case. And yet, for Pilate, as for other men, there 
were forces at work which might have brought vic- 
tory instead of disaster, had he but availed himself 
of their aid. His wife stood for the high against 
the low, for the spiritual against the material, for 
honour against overweening ambition. It was not 
that he was in ignorance of the true state of affairs. 
It was rather that knowing the facts, he declined 
to follow the path leading to the heights. Nathaniel”: 
Hawthorne, having lost his government position, 
went home, dejected and almost desperate. His 
wife, after a time, learning the reason of his gloom, 
instead of giving way to reproaches, set pen and ink 
on the table, and lighting a fire in the grate, put 
her arms about his shoulders. ‘‘Now you will be 
able to write your book!’’ He took heart of grace, 
and the world was enriched with The Scarlet Letter, - 
The House of the Seven Gables, Tanglewood Tales, 
etc. Yet they came into being not through his 
adversity, but through the believing love of a 
woman. 

It is as Ruskin tells us. ‘She sees the qualities of . 
things, their claims and their places. Her great 
function is praise; she enters into no conquest, but 


108 Cameos from Calvary 


infallibly judges the crown of conquest.” Countess 
Tolstoy not only inspired much of her husband’s 
work, but also took an active part in its production. 
She copied out the whole of War and Peace no fewer 
than seven times, because she was the only one who 
could make out his wretched handwriting, or under- 
stand the innumerable corrections with which he 
adorned her pages after she had transcribed his 
notes. Mahomet being asked by his young wife, 
Ayesha, if he did not love her better than the homely 
Khadija whom he had first married replied, ‘“‘No; 
she was old and ugly, I grant. But when none be- 
lieved in me, she did, and encouraged me in my 
work.” And it is well-known that when Garfield 
was installed as President of the United States, he 
refused to take the seat of honour set before the 
assembled multitude. Instead, he led to it a frail 
old lady with silver hair. ‘The reason was, as he 
explained later, that he owed everything he had 
achieved to her. She had been his counsellor, his 
comfort in distress, his inspiration, for she was— 
his mother. 

Procula acted as she did ‘‘because of Him,” and 
her efforts in that pregnant hour entitle her to a 
place on the roll of the world’s greatest women. 
And the same thing has moved women’s souls ever 
since. Woman owes so much to Jesus Christ that 
it were surprising if some sense of her indebtedness 
to Him were not stirred. It is ‘because of Him” 
that she ceased to be a mere chattel or plaything, 
and was given her rightful place by man’s side. 
Because of Him she has felt the wrongs of the op- 
pressed, pleading the cause of ill-kept prisoners as 
did Elizabeth Fry, the needs of toiling children as 


The Wefe of Plate 109 


did Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the lot of the 
poor as did Frances E. Willard. That is not all. 
The appeal comes to every heart to obey the prompt- 
ings of love, to fling the safeguard of an ennobling 
influence around the feet of the tempted, and to 
inspire obedience to Christ in those with whom life 
has bound us. And though Procula did not accom- 
plish the one object she had at heart, she yet shows 
the power of impotence. The force of her example 
may still be fruitful in the lives of women and men 
of the present time, and of Procula as well as every 
true woman shall it be said: 


“, . « Men at her side ~~ 
Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole town 
The children were gladder that pulled at her gown; 
The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude, 
She took as she found them, and did them all good; 
None knelt at her feet, confessed lovers in thrall; 
They knelt more to God than they used—that was all.” f 


VIII 
HEROD) THE SUPERPFICIAT 


“As soon as he (Pilate) knew that He 
belonged to Herod’s jurisdiction, he sent 
Him to Herod.” 

—LUKE 23: 7. 


iG OD moves in a mysterious way His wonders 

to perform.” If ever that were true it was 
surely in those eventful hours preceding the passion 
of our Lord. Men with whom His mission had 
brought Him into conflict come together on the stage 
of history. Was it that their real character might 
be better appraised? Was it that we might see 
Jesus in a still clearer light? Be that as it may, 
after Annas and Caiaphas, followed by Pilate, we 
are thrust into the presence of Herod, the super- 
ficial. 

It is almost inevitable that, when the same name 
is borne by different men, there should be some con- 
fusion in the minds of those who read the Gospels. 
The name of Herod occurs time after time, and 
discrimination is essential to an intelligent grasp 
of events. It stands only too often for cruelty, 
licence, and subterfuge. Let us take a swift survey 
of this family; it will remove some misunderstand- 
ing. In the time of the Maccabees, an Idumzan 
named Antipater, a man devoid of principle yet un- 
doubtedly sagacicus, came into prominence. He 

110 


Herod, the Superficcral 111 


rendered signal service to the Roman emperor, 
Pompey, in his Egyptian campaign, and on its vic- 
torious conclusion, Antipater went to Rome to claim 
his reward. He sought more than gold; he had 
political ambitions. So he returned as governor 
of Galilee. In due course, the office passed to his 
son who became Herod the Great. He in turn 
secured further imperial favours. By judicious gifts 
and sycophancy, he obtained the title ‘King of the 
Jews” from Cesar Augustus, and came back to 
Palestine in triumph. 

Herod’s rule was tyrannical, and yet marked by 
considerable cleverness. Having crushed an in- 
cipient rebellion at Massada, he installed himself 
in the city of David, building an imposing palace 
on Mount Zion to impress his Jewish subjects. He 
made a further bid for their support, by adding 
generosity to his opulent state. The old Temple of 
Solomon, which had been rebuilt by Zerubbabel some 
five hundred years before, had become dilapidated. 
So Herod projected a new building worthy alike of 
Jehovah and of the nation that worshipped Him. 
The scheme took forty-six years to complete, and 
was indeed a triumph of architecture. As the king 
grew older, he became moody and morose. He dis- 
covered plots where they did not exist. He could 
trust no one, even as none trusted him. And when 
tidings were brought to him that One had been 
“born king of the Jews,” it caused panic in the 
breast of him who was king not by birth but by 
bribery. So he promulgated that edict which 
plunged Judea into sorrow, and left ‘“The heart 
of Rachel for her children mourning.” 


At Herod’s death, it was found that he had left 


119 Cameos from Calvary 


three separate wills, making various dispositions 
among his sons. ‘he first declared that Antipater 
should be his successor; the second nominated 
Antipas; while the third awarded the crown to 
Archelaus, with only tetrarchies to Antipas and 
Philip. These wills were naturally contested. 
Antipas and Archelaus went to Rome personally 
to appeal to the emperor for his ruling. Augustus 
with fitting dilatoriness at last gave his decision. It 
gave Judea, Samaria, and Idumza to Archelaus; 
Antipas was given Galilee and Perea; while Philip 
was made tetrarch of Iturea and Trachonitis. 

Now it was the second of these princes, Antipas, 
who is here designated Herod, and who played a 
sinister part in the Gospel story. His income from 
the two provinces of Galilee and Perea amounted 
to 200 talents per annum (about £48,000 or 
$240,000). He married the daughter of Aretas, 
an Arabian king, and built Tiberius for his capital. 
But his self-indulgent life bred the usual evils. 
While on a visit to Rome, he met again his brother, 
Philip, who had married Herodias. Antipas, fall- 
ing violently in love—if that noble term can be ap- 
plied to such a sordid occurrence—formed a shame- 
ful alliance with her. He sought a divorce from his 
wife who fled to her father at the news, and Herod 
Antipas bore his prize back in triumph. 

About this time, a striking figure appeared from 
desert solitudes. His words smote on the ears of 
the groundlings like thunder. ‘They scorched the 
souls of hypocritical religionists like molten metal. 
It was John the Baptist. He declared the coming 
of a Mighty One whose kingdom must soon be 
established. And it was not long before Herod’s 


Herod, the Superficeal 113 


interest was aroused. He kept in touch with cur- 
rent events through his informers, and the eloquence 
of this orator from the hills had set people talking. 
Herod, having been educated in Rome, may have 
had some interest in the rhetoricians whose art then 
flourished. Or, on the other hand, bored by the 
placid life of the palace, his liaison having begun to 
pall, Herod thought this fiery fanatic might provide 
some new sensation. Whatever the motive the 
preacher was summoned to the royal presence. 
The court assembled. ‘That broad-chested, sun- 
tanned man of the desert was ushered in. His un- 
couth garb of camel-hair cloth, held in at the waist 
by a leather girdle, his erect figure with its flowing 
locks and beard, the sandals and gnarled staff, made 
a picture arrestive in the extreme. What would he 
do? Recite some thrilling passage from the books 
of his gods, or proclaim the advent of some king 
whom his vivid imagination had conceived? Herod 
playfully touches the woman at his side, and bids 
her listen. She will hear that which will put the 
platitudes of their counsellors, and the mad antics 
of the court buffoons into the shade! And verily 
she does. The fearless servant of God was swift 
to seize his opportunity. He knew the character 
of this ruler. Possibly a word from the sacred 
writings which his father, Zacharias, had expounded 
came to mind as he stood amidst those scenes of 
magnificence. ‘‘As a roaring lion, and a ranging 
bear; so is a wicked ruler over the poor people.” ~ 
Herod had left a trail of evil example and influence 
across society, and godliness, purity, and the sanc- 
tity of the home, were alike depreciated in value 
because of his life. John had no smooth words 


114 Cameos from Calvary 


for such as he. With unflinching courage, with eyes 
that flashed and words that burned, he denounced 
the king’s corruptness. By all the laws of God and 
man, he was an outcast. Yet he was so far lost to 
all sense of decency that he could flaunt his sin in 
the face of God’s servant, and even glory in his 
shame. John showed the hoary fallacy that the 
king could do no wrong, to be a lie framed in the 
lowest hell. Noblesse oblige ought to have been the 
motto of one who had been exalted thus, and he 
should have known that a monarch lives: 


“In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, 
And blackens every blot!” 


The weak, sensual face of Herod darkened into 
a frown at John’s words, as the sky is overspread 
with thunder-clouds. ‘Then the storm broke. He 
issues his commands in a high-pitched voice, vibrant 
with passion. ‘The Baptist is seized by the guards, 
and hurried to the dungeons. He was the prototype 
of Chrysostom who, in the Church of St. Sophia in 
Constantinople, condemned the scandalous life of 
the Empress Eudoxia, and of John Knox rebuking 
the impure life of Mary’s court from the pulpit of 
St. Giles. 


“’The brave man is not he who feels no fear; 
For that were stupid and irrational; 
But he whose noble soul its fear subdues, 
And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from.” 


The better to understand Herod’s character, we 
look at what followed. He was celebrating his birth- 
day. The wine had been flowing, and the now maud- 


Herod, the Superficzal 115 


lin king, moved by the sensuous dance of Salome, 
the daughter of his paramour, made his half- 
drunken promise. Prompted by her mother, she 
asked neither gold nor gems, but the head of John, 
the valiant. Although he knew that he had been 
tricked, Herod would not draw back lest he should 
appear more ridiculous in the eyes of his guests— 
as though that were possible. And John was exe- 
cuted. Did the incident end there? If the beliefs 
of that day amounted to anything, it ought to have 
done; John was dead. Grim proof of that fact had 
been borne in upon a dish, so ghastly and incon- 
gruous amid the riotous revellings of that ban- 
queting-hall. But Herod could not put the sight 
from him. The mingled cries of horror and hilarity 
from his guests, the mad whirling dance with which 
Salome circled round the attendants, could not be 
forgotten. Why? Because news reached him that 
a Preacher was ranging Galilee, and he could draw 
only one conclusion: “He said unto his servants, 
This is John the Baptist; he is risen from the dead; 
and therefore mighty works do show themselves in 
him.” 

Day after day, he turned matters over in his 
muddled and muddied brain. Sins like accusing. 
phantoms shot poisoned darts at him from the lurk- 
ing shadow of every corner, and made the night 
hideous with their mockings. What though he had 
built a stronghold, and was surrounded by his 
guards, they could not keep these afar. It is said 
that Nicephorus Phocas, having built a high wall 
about his palace to afford security, heard a voice | 
crying in the night, ‘““O emperor, though thou build 
thy wall as high as the clouds, yet if sin be within, 


116 Cameos from Calvary 


it will overthrow all.”” Then Herod tried to assert 
control over his fears. It could not be John, for 
John was dead. Yet, as Luke relates, his heart 
demanded, ‘“‘Who is this of whom I hear such 
things? And he desired to see Him.” What was 
his reason for wishing to see Jesus? Was it merely 
curiosity, or an attempt to lay the ghosts of re- 
morse? ‘The old couplet of Fletcher reminds us: 


“Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, 
Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.” 


Luke later records a stupid threat Herod made re- 
garding Jesus. Perhaps he had summarily ordered 
the Master to present Himself at the palace, a 
command which was ignored. Or the continual 
reports of His work may have impelled Herod to 
believe that unless he could lay hands on this Man 
there was no hope of peace for his troubled mind. 
When the Pharisees said to Jesus, “Get Thee out 
and depart hence for Herod will kill Thee,” one of 
the most scathing things that ever fell from His lips 
indicates His opinion of the king. “Go ye and tell 
that fox, Behold, I cast out devils, and I do cures 
to-day and to-morrow, and the third day I shall be 
perfected.’ ‘That fox’—the embodiment of cun- 
ning and cruelty—had met with One who neither 
feared his anger nor desired his patronage. 

This was the man before whom Jesus was to be 
arraigned. But was he wholly to blame? Admit- 
tedly he started life with a heavy handicap. Wealth 
and power are not the unmixed blessings which from 
a distance we fondly believe. Herod had a poor 
beginning; his blood was tainted with the shameful 


Herod, the Superficial 117 


crimes and self-indulgence of his profligate father. 
He bore a name which was hated and reviled by all 
to whom honour was dear. ‘The influence of his 
environment, no less than his ancestry, was a draw- 
back. He had been brought up to live for money 
and the things that money could buy. He had been 
taught to think that the things he could taste and 
handle were the only things that mattered. Are we 
then excusing his evil ways? Far from it. We 
but bespeak kindly judgment for those denied the 
spiritual advantages that we may have enjoyed. 
Too often do we fail to make allowance for the 
handicap of heredity. Yet we dare not make undue 
excuses for ourselves. The late Dr. R. W. Dale 
once said: “You tell me that what you are is the 
result of the follies and vices of a long line of pro- 
genitors, that as you bear in your complexion, your 
features, and even in curious tricks of manner, their 
image and superscription, so your moral qualities 
have come to you as an inheritance. . . . I will not 
quarrel with this way of putting it, 1 will not ask 
for the qualification of your statement which I might 
press for; let it be as you have said; you have been 
manufactured by your birth and circumstances, and 
are dissatisfied with the result. Then place your- 
self in God’s hands, and you shall be His ‘workman-_ 
ship created in Christ Jesus to good works.’” 
Herod must have had some impulse towards the 
good, but he disregarded the searching counsel of 
the Baptist. And the ministry of Jesus had made 
itself felt not only in Herod’s province of Galilee, 
but even in his household, for Joanna, the wife of 
his steward, had become a follower of Christ. By 
a strange overruling of Providence, however, they 


118 Cameos from Calvary 


came face to face at last. Herod’s wish to see Jesus 
was gratified. 

Pilate and he were not on good terms. ‘The cause 
of their estrangement is apparent. Pilate occupied 
the palace which Herod’s father had built in Jeru- 
salem, and the power which he regarded as his right, 
had been filched from him by this usurping Pro- 
curator. But when Pilate, darting like a trapped 
animal seeking to escape, ascertained that Jesus was 
a Galilean, the Governor exercised his right to 
remit a case to the ruler of the province to which 
the defendant belonged. He could not, of course, 
have sent Jesus to Galilee to be tried there. The 
insistency of the crowd would not have permitted 
that even had it been necessary. But there was no 
need, for Herod Antipas had come to Jerusalem to 
observe the Feast of the Passover. Nominally, he 
was a Jew. That was due to pressure brought to 
bear on Antipater, his grandfather. Under the 
Maccabees, the Idumzans were compelled to accept 
the Jewish faith or be slain, and Antipater to whom 
religion meant little, accepted their demands. ‘Thus 
the house of Herod owned some allegiance to Juda- 
ism provided it did not inconvenience its mode of 
life. The fact that his religion had not kept Herod 
from his profligacy shows its practical value in his 
case. Still, these periodic visits to the capital of- 
fered a welcome change from the boredom of Gali- 
lee, and Herod was staying in the old palace of the 
Asmonzan princes. 

Pilate’s message to Herod that Jesus was on His 
way filled him with anticipation. At last the desire 
of many months would be fulfilled. He would know 
whether this were John or not. But one glance was 


Herod, the Superficzal 119 


enough. The two preachers were the poles apart. 
There was no resemblance between Jesus and His 
forerunner. He had a certain quiet dignity, it is 
true, but the bound hands, and evidence of ill-usage, 
made Him altogether different from the other. 
Moreover, there was in the face of Jesus a sym- 
pathy, a tenderness, that the Baptist’s never showed. 
This was the countenance of One who had felt 
deeply and suffered greatly. But once assured that 
his fears had been groundless Herod was not con- 
cerned with these things. He was, however, in 
quest of something to relieve the tedium of his 
days. Perhaps Jesus, of whom he had heard so 
much, would show His skill by performing some 
marvellous feats. The choice could be left to Him. 
Yet in spite of the express wish of the monarch, 
Jesus made no attempt to justify the fame He had 
achieved. Had He no respect for the patron who 
thus gave Him the opportunity of showing His 
powers? Apparently not! This reputed worker 
of miracles remained unmoved. Herod grew 
restive. Either this Man would not, or could not, 
do what was asked of Him; and Herod’s chagrin 
was manifest. So he began to ply Jesus with ques- 
tions. 


“Oh, what authority and show of truth, 
Can cunning sin cover itself withal!” 


What were those questions? From what we know 
of the man, we may be sure that they were frivolous, 
irrelevant, or profane, for the Master with a 
severity that was alien to His gracious heart treated 
them with a contemptuous silence more crushing 


120 Cameos from Calvary 


than any retort. Plainly, He did not stand in awe 
of the ruler of Galilee. And Herod’s superficial 
soul was scored. If this Man did not reverence his 
authority, He must be made to feel its weight. 
Had Jesus been some gorgeously apparelled mon- 
arch who, by the fortunes of war, stood thus bound 
before Herod, would he have acted as he did? The 
answer is in the negative. His craven heart would 
have been too fearful of reprisals. Or he would 
have sought to curry favour with him by treating 
him with condescension. Being but a Man in peas- 
ant garb, the matter took on a different complexion. 


Herod could do as he liked, and did it! 


“Be thou clad in russet weed, 

Be thou decked in russet stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul: 
Say man’s true, genuine estimate 
The grand criterion of his fate, 

Is not, art thou high or low? 

Did thy fortune ebb or flow? 

Did many talents gild the span? 

Or frugal nature grudge thee one? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thyself must shortly find, 
‘The smile or frown of awful Heav’n 
To virtue or to vice is given.” 


Herod was of such different clay that he could not 
understand One so unperturbed. Yet as Spurgeon 
says: ‘‘Patient silence is the best reply to a gain- 
saying world. Calm endurance answers some ques- 
tions infinitely more conclusively than the loftiest 
eloquence. . . . The anvil breaks a host of ham- 
mers by quietly bearing the blows.” But Herod 


Herod, the Superficeal 121 


would not admit that. Calling his attendants, he 
had a festal robe brought in. It was probably a 
white mantle such as that worn by an aspirant to 
some given office. This was placed on Christ’s 
shoulders. If He sought to become the Messiah or 
even the king of the Jews, then it were fitting that 
He should be arrayed in conformity with His pre- 
tensions. Herod laughed uproariously at his own 
wit. One of the surest ways of commending one- 
self to a man in authority is to laugh at his jests. 
The reverse is also true: there is no swifter path 
to his displeasure than to remain unmoved by his 
mirth. He is puzzled then to know if, instead of 
laughing with him, one is inwardly laughing at him. 
Yet this was too solemn an hour for the heart to 
be mirthful. Jesus saw the tragedy of a man jest- 
ing in the face of spiritual disaster. Like some poor 
clown, he playfully danced on the casket enclosing . 
the dead form of his higher nature. And Christ 
was sorrowful not because of what was done to Him, — 
but because of the folly of this fool of the shallow 
heart. 

What ribald sallies would fall from those sensual 
lips! With keen insight, Swift declares, “Satire is 
a sort of glass wherein beholders generally discover 
everybody’s face but their own.”’ His ridicule would 
be coloured by his own evil mode of life. Did he 
taunt this sinless soul with the unworthy associates 
who were presumably His boon companions? Did 
he with vile suggestion and unsparing plainness of 
speech mock the Galilean who, thus put to the test, 
could not substantiate a single claim to supernatural 
powers? Herod, who knew no restraint on conduct, 
would not be likely to have any upon his unruly ~ 


122 Cameos from Calvary 


tongue. And yet Jesus remained silent! We need 
not ask the reason. Frederick the Great said on 
one occasion: ‘‘I think as Epictetus did: ‘If evil be 
said of thee, and if it be true, correct thyself; if it 
be a lie, laugh at it.’ By dint of time and experi- 
ence, I have learned to be a good post-horse. I 
go through my appointed daily stage, and I care 
not for the curs who bark at me along the road.” 
Which things are not without point for us. We 
need to speak out fearlessly in some cases, defend- 
ing ourselves against vile calumnies and baseless lies, 
or to give an answer concerning the faith that is 
in us. Jesus did so on occasion. Yet there are 
other times when we can best afford to keep a reso- 
lute silence, for some attacks are beneath contempt 
even as those emanating from Herod. Character 
is the acid test by which we may ascertain their real 
value. Boswell, having been insulted by some one, 
went off to Dr. Johnson, and poured forth his woes. 
The Doctor laughed and said, ‘“‘Consider, sir, how 
insignificant this will appear twelve months hence.” 
Boswell took the counsel to heart, and says himself: 
‘Were this consideration applied to most of the 
little vexations of life, by which our quiet is too 
often disturbed, it would prevent many painful sen- 
sations. I have tried it frequently, and with good 
effect.” ‘The man who is always giving people a 
piece of his mind can rarely afford to be so generous 
with that faculty. His mental state often indicates 
the extent of his previous lavishness. But Christ 
is our example. He illustrates that observation of 
Drexilius. “The command of one’s self is the great- 
est empire a man can aspire unto. And conse- 
quently, to be subject to our passions is the most 


Herod, the Superficzal 123 


grievous slavery. Neither is there any triumph more 
glorious than that of the victory obtained of our- 
selves where, whilst the conflict is so short, the re- 
ward shall ever last.” 

The moral triumph of Christ was not lost upon 
Herod. This Man seemed to have linked His life 
to an immortal principle, for He had kept a firm 
hand on Himself throughout. And in spite of all 
He had endured of mental torment, there was a 
certain kingliness that, at last, even Herod could 
not wholly fail to appreciate. 


“For ’tis the mind that makes the body rich; 
And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, 
So honour peereth in the meanest habit.” 


Something stirred in the ruler’s superficial soul. His 
vanity had been tickled by the deference Pilate had 
shown him in remitting the case for his opinion. 
Henceforth, he would let bygones be bygones, and 
show the magnanimity that befitted a king. He 
would let this Roman Procurator also know that his 
own judgment did not fall one whit behind the acute 
mind of the imperial official. When he sent Jesus 
back to Pilate, therefore, his verdict coincided with * 
that of the Governor. 

Pilate later announced that to the priests. “I, 
having examined Him before you, have found no 
fault in this Man, touching those things whereof you 
accuse Him. No, nor yet Herod.” And to what 
conclusion are we led? MHere is One who, under 
the most trying circumstances and the greatest 
provocation, knew that control which could not be 

shaken by His enemies. More, accused by those 


124 Cameos from Calvary 


whose hatred nothing could placate, whose charges 
were unconditioned by the truth, we are confronted 
by One whose life was without stain. This is surely 
‘the noblest, the brotherliest, and the most heroic- 
minded Being, who ever walked God’s earth.”’ He 
is that, but He is more. The devout heart sees 
in Him the manifestation of the perfect life to which 
we are called, and God’s superb sacrifice for human 
sin. And with reverential wonder the heart ex- 
claims: 


“I give Thee back the life I owe, 
‘That in Thine ocean depths its flow 
May richer, fuller be.” 


Herod, the superficial, eventually reaped what he 
had sown. Aretas declared war upon his erst- 
while son-in-law for his perfidious conduct, in which 
Herod suffered defeat. Later, at the instigation of 
Herodias, he went to Rome to secure the emperor’s 
favour, but reports had preceded him, impeaching 
him for his misrule. He was deposed, banished to 
Gaul, and afterwards died in Spain. Thus ended 
the reign of this poor worldling, while the power of 
Jesus whom he had set at nought, still grows and 
will until “He hath put all His enemies under His 
feet.” 


IX 
BARABBAS OR CHRIST? 


‘Whom will ye that I release unto 
you? Barabbas, or Jesus which is called 
Christ?” 

—Mat}tT. 27:17. 


HERO'S refusal to assume responsibility com- 
plicated matters. Pilate was again in a diff- 
culty. To release the Prisoner meant risking a 
riot and all that involved; to condemn Him would 
gratify the rulers. And the Governor did not wish 
to do either. These conflicting forces were like 
two armies which had fought themselves to a stand- 
still, without hope of a decision unless reinforce- 
ments came to one side or the other. Pilate felt 
he was in the grip of circumstances, and resorting 
to self-pity, he might have said with perfect rele- 
vance: 


“The time is out of joint; O curséd spite, 
That ever I was born to set it right!” 


He was not really concerned with the course of jus- 

tice, and less with the cause of Christ. But for his 

own sake, he was extremely anxious to extricate 

himself from this position without giving the Jews 

an opportunity for either boasting or complaint. 

But as we have seen, BER Y dogged his steps. 
12 


126 Cameos from Calvary 


Goethe commands assent when he says, “I respect 
the man who knows distinctly what he wishes. The 
greater part of all mischief of the world arises from 
the fact that men do not sufficiently understand their | 
own aims.” And in spite of himself, Pilate really 
wanted to let Jesus go. 

Memoty is proverbially erratic. Sometimes when 
we count on her help, she fails us miserably. At 
other times, she steps out of the shadows, and 
proffers her aid when it is least expected. It was 
so in Pilate’s case. He suddenly recalled that 
among the many Jewish customs with which he had 
had to make himself acquainted, they had one which 
liberated an offender at the Passover. And the Pro- 
curator’s face brightened at the thought. It was 
almost like an inspiration from those gods to which 
he gave scant reverence. His mind always worked 
swiftly when he sought an advantage over an op- 
ponent. At that very hour, there was a fellow who 
lay under sentence of death. It was the notorious 
Barabbas. He had given considerable trouble to 
the authorities as a brigand, and then as the leader 
of an insurrection. They had tracked him to his 
lair, only to find he had taken up new quarters. 
They lay ambushed in his usual sphere of opera- 
tions, but again he outwitted his pursuers, resuming 
his activities elsewhere. At last, however, he was 
captured, and was summarily sentenced to be exe- 
cuted. Peaceful citizens heaved a sigh of relief. 
They had no sympathy with such a pest. He was 
not only a source of anxiety to the government— 
they could have forgiven that!—but he was also a 
menace to society. For the first time in Pilate’s 
experience, he saw that the bandit could be of use. 


Barabbas or Chrest?¢, 127 


Barabbas was the solution of his problem. He 
would submit an alternative to the crowd which did 
not really permit of any choice; and at one throw, 
he would not only gain his own point, but also score 
over the Elders as well. Pilate put the question to 
the people, though the answer he felt sure, was a 
foregone conclusion. ‘Whom will ye that I re- 
lease unto you? Barabbas, or Jesus which is called 
Christ?” 

It was a dramatic situation, and the Procurator 
handled it with unerring instinct. Barabbas had 
been brought up from his cell, and now stood side 
by side with Jesus. At first, he thought that this 
summons means his execution was to be expedited. 
But now, listening to the Governor’s proposal, he 
can scarcely believe his ears. We gaze on the scene, 
feeling the tremendous issues at stake. What will 
they do? Will they choose this repulsive fellow, 
naked to the waist, and manacled hand and foot? 
And as we look at him, conjectures arise regarding 
his origin and how he came to adopt a life of crime. 
Although the four Gospels mention him, and though 
the name of Barabbas is held in widespread horror, 
we know very little about him. An _ interesting 
theory affirms that his name was Jesus Barabbas; 
hence the care with which Pilate distinguished the 
Master as ‘“‘Jesus which is called Christ.” Origen 
cites this similarity in names. It is found in the 
Armenian, the Jerusalem Syriac, and some other 
versions. Yet the grounds on which it is based are 
inconclusive, and Origen does not give it any sanc- 
tion. Professor David Smith, in The Days of His 
Flesh, however, takes the former position. “By a 
singular coincidence,” he says, “the desperado’s 


128 Cameos from Calvary 


name was Jesus. He was the son of one of the 
rabbis, and he was known generally, perhaps in 
wonderment at his fall, as Bar Abba—the son of 
the father, that is, the rabbi.’ In our opinion, it is 
more probable that while Barabbas may have be- 
longed to one of the rabbinical families, the name, 
Jesus, was prefixed in error. A copyist repeated 
the last two letters of the preceding word. ‘These 
were taken, as they could easily be, for an abbrevia- 
tion of ‘‘Jesus.’’ ‘Then subsequently, they were in- 
cluded in the copy of some later writer in full. 

That is unimportant, but from the materials at 
our disposal, we ascertain that Barabbas was a 
notable prisoner, who had been found guilty not 
only of sedition and insurrection, but also of rob- 
bery and murder. The former charges laid against 
him would not necessarily render him unpopular with 
the people. A revolutionary was regarded as a na- 
tional hero. The Jews could not think of their 
conquerors ensconced in the city of David, or see 
the sentinels posted in their streets, without resent- 
ment. Besides, some of the great men of their 
past had been revolutionaries. Moses had headed 
an insurrection against the might of Egyptian 
tyranny. Elijah stood in courageous opposition to 
the licentious rites of Baal, even though they had 
royal sanction. And what shall be said of Judas 
Maccabeus? He occupied a place which none could 
rival. Even as Mattathias, his father, he had 
fought against the debasing practices which threat- 
ened to oust the pure worship of Jehovah. He had 
cleansed the defiled sanctuary, where swine had been 
offered on the altar. He battled fiercely and vic- 
toriously against the armed force sent to subdue 


Barabbas or Chrest? 129 


him. And even when he fell on the field of honour, 
he transmitted his spirit to his children’s breasts. 
Were Barabbas merely a rebel against the estab- 
lished order of things, we repeat, he would have 
been in good company like Mazzini and Garibaldi, 
in national affairs; John Howard, Wilberforce, and 
Lincoln, in social reform; Luther, Calvin, and 
Melanchthon, in the religious sphere. Washington 
stands in the forefront of men who could not live 
unto themselves when oppression lifted its ugly 
head, and when the liberties of the people cried out 
for a champion. All such men are held in the high- 
est esteem. No thought of personal gain actuated 
them. Their one desire was the common good. 

But here they and Barabbas part company. He 
had used his patriotic schemes as a means to an end. 
His thought for his country did not exclude him- 
self. Finding that he had fallen foul of the au- 
thorities, he continued his life of violence for its own 
sake. There were numerous bands of brigands who 
molested travellers on the lonely trade-routes, or 
who systematically laid the peasantry and merchant 
classes under tribute. And when Barabbas and his 
comrades needed supplies, they simply took what 
they wanted. This was followed even by murder, 
and now he and two of his companions awaited 
death. Whatever his family connections, the main 
body of the people had no pity for such a fellow. 
They knew him to be thoroughly bad. And Pilate 
was aware of this. That is why, in face of such 
detestation, he felt safe in making his proposal. 
The more so when he brought the two men to- 
gether for purposes of comparison. The marks of 
moral degeneration on the face of Barabbas could 


130 Cameos from Calvary 


not be missed. In The Picture of Dorian Gray, 
there is a striking illustration of this. A youth of 
perfect manners and great wealth was the idol of 
his circle. A portrait of him, which hung in his 
home, was greatly admired by all who saw it. But 
he fell in with companions who led him into ways 
of indulgence and debauchery that had a strange 
effect, not on his own face, but on that of the por- 
trait. It changed slowly but surely into the coarse 
and sensual. And at last he could stand it no longer. 
Returning from a further round of excess, he noted 
the dreadful face of the picture, and seizing a 
dagger, he stabbed furiously at the canvas. The 
next day, his friends found him lying before the 
portrait, the dagger in his own heart, but the canvas 
uninjured, showing the unsullied face of youth. But 
in real life, the face of the wrongdoer himself un- 
dergoes the change. In the British Museum, there 
are two busts of Nero. One shows him as he was 
at the commencement of his reign; the other is later. 
The latter reveals the alteration which bestiality, 
cruelty and self-indulgence leave on the human face. 
But not far away is another statue of Marcus 
Aurelius, showing serenity and strength. A lofty 
plane of life has an ennobling effect even on the 
countenance. And if such differences can be noted 
in insensient marble, would not the difference be- 
tween the faces of Jesus and Barabbas be even more 
marked? 

Pilate could not conceal his gratification at his 
own shrewd move. He had placed the priests where 
defeat was unescapable. At least, it might have 
been so had not his attention been diverted by that 
message from Procula. ‘That gave the rulers their 


Barabbas or Chrast? 131 


chance. ‘They had already divined the reason for 
this sudden regard for their rights and customs. 
Pilate was planning to release their Victim, and they 
were just as determined that He should not be freed. 
Clever though the Governor might think himself, 
he was no match for his antagonists. ‘They incited 
the people to make their choice. But it was not of 
the Galilean, whose hands had ever been stretched 
out in innumerable acts of mercy; it was that other, 
whose hands were red with blood, and who even 
now glared in wrath as he saw himself made a pawn 
in Pilate’s game. 

“Not this Man, but Barabbas!”’ Pilate started 
like one struck a savage blow. It was incredible! 
He had been so sure of success that he could hardly 
take in the words screamed in his ear. But plainly 
he did not understand the psychology of a mob. It 
was impossible to forecast their actions, for, one 
moment favourable, the next, they could be swept 
to the opposite extreme. Shakespeare sums it up 
by saying: : 


“*.. . L love the people, 
But I do not like to stage me to their eyes; 
Though it do well, I do not relish well 
Their loud applause and Aves vehement, 
Nor do I think the man of safe discretion 
That does affect it.” 


As the Governor listened to the rabble demanding 
that Jesus should be crucified in place of Barabbas, 
he showed his confusion. His arguments were a 
sure indication that he, whose word was ordinarily 
law, had been out-generalled. “Why, what evil 
hath He done?” It was in vain. His own convic- 


132 Cameos from Calvary 


tions, and the urgent counsel of his wife, were as 
straws before the tempestuous storm of anger and 
impatience that now swept the courtyard. ‘‘When 
Pilate saw that he could prevail nothing, but that 
rather a tumult was made,’’ he bowed to the will 
of the people. Releasing Barabbas, he handed Jesus 
over to be scourged. 

Free? Barabbas stepped down from the pave- 
ment like a man in a dream. He mingled with the 
spectators, some of whom were shouting in wild 
delight that they had compelled the pompous Goy- 
ernor to yield to their demands; others were calling 
out derisively after the retreating form of the 
Nazarene. Barabbas found himself the centre of 
a noisy group. With sundry playful blows, hand- 
clasps, and the like, they showered their congratu- 
lations on him. It was splendid to be so popular, 
and to be free again! His limbs seemed strangely 
light after the ponderous fetters. He wanted to 
leap, to laugh, to give way to his ebullient spirits. 
He was free, feted, the idol of the rabble—and a 
short while before, he had been staring death in the 
face! One could never gauge the turn of Fortune’s 
wheel. Then something snapped in his brain. He 
threw off the hands of the fawning folk about him, 
and thrusting them aside, strode through the crowd 
and forth into the city. 

It was still early, and few people were about. 
Some shop-keepers were unfurling the faded awn- 
ings, or setting out their wares with leisurely hands. 
One or two pilgrims wandered aimlessly along, gaz- 
ing at the narrow streets and maze of clustering 
houses, and wondering how any one could ever know 
his way about such a place. But Barabbas had no 


Barabbas or Christ? 135 


eyes for these. He saw only one face. It had 
quickened memories which had lain sleeping in his 
soul. He saw the shame of his misspent years. Yet 
what struck him more forcibly was the irony of 
that morning’s events. He did not know Jesus, 
though he had heard of His doings. ‘They had 
nothing in common; their lives were the antipodes 
of each other. One was all graciousness and love; 
the other, violence and hate. One sought to give 
all He could for man’s enrichment; the other took 
what he wanted, fearing neither God nor man. And. 
how had Fortune rewarded them? Suffering and 
death for one; freedom and life for the other! 
tices 

Barabbas walked on through by-ways, thinking 
nothing of direction. There was no friendly door 
open to him. On the contrary, though he had been 
acquitted, he knew his life was far from safe. There 
were old scores by the hundred. Any one recog- 
nizing him might drive a knife into his back, or 
gathering help bear him down by sheer weight of 
numbers. He shuddered—and yet it was the 
thought of Jesus dying in his stead which disturbed 
him most. If only he could get some food, he would 
return to his resort amid the hills of Jordan. There 
he would meet his comrades, and set to work to 
recoup himself for lost time, and all he had endured. 
But he was hungry, and what was more, he seemed 
to lack energy to strike out to the old life. It was 
as though an angelic cordon had been drawn round 
him, and the way back closed by an impenetrable 
barrier. 

The cries of excited people, and the noise of a 
bustling mob smote on his ear as he turned into 


134 Cameos from Calvary 


the main thoroughfare. He had made a circuit 
without knowing it, and as he caught the glint of 
the sun on shining lances and erect plumes, and then 
saw the top of a cross, he knew that though he had 
escaped the cross, he could not flee from its influence. 
He forgot his hunger. He might have said, “There, 
but for the grace of God, goes Barabbas!”’ but his 
impulse was to force his way through that jeering 
pack of bloodhounds, and demand to take what was 
his rightful place. For after all, though Fate had 
eranted him the boon of life, was it worth having if 
he were to be tortured with remorse for all time? 
But the crowd had closed in on him, and the impulse 
passed. ‘They did not recognize him, for their ate 
tention was fixed on the form in the distance, and 
the spectacle that awaited them. And hardly know- 
ing why, Barabbas moved on to the Golgotha that 
had been meant for him. 

While the three victims were being nailed down 
on their crosses, Barabbas hung back. He had good 
reasons for not wishing to go too near. ‘Iwo of the 
victims knew him; but it was the third into whose 
face he shrank from looking. Word was somehow 
passed round that Barabbas was there, and he was 
dragged forward that he might share in the grim 
spectacle in which he had been destined to fill so 
large a place. The old evil self asserted itself. He 
laughed at the curses of his two former associates, 
swearing roundly at them in return. Then his eyes 
met those of the Man dying in his stead. He saw 
the lips move. That was more than he could endure. 
To hear Him add His reproaches to those of the 
other two was intolerable, and for the second time 
that day, Barabbas hurled himself upon his throng- 


Barabbas or Christ? 135 


ing admirers, striking out right and left, and forced 
his way to solitude. No such word as he feared 
would have fallen from those sacred lips. Had the 
Saviour spoken to him, it would have been only some 
message that would have been as balm to a wounded 
spirit. The criminal could not know that, but re- 
morse had now taken grip of his heart, and he hung 
on the farthest rim of the rabble, screened from 
observation by a few stunted bushes, waiting for he 
knew not what, and still unable to leave. 

The sky grew ominously dark. ‘There was a 
crash of thunder, and a thousand voices seemed to 
cry from the depths of his being, “Thou art the 
man!” He knew it! Sin had not destroyed all 
thought of past privileges. Memories of his 
father’s remonstrances, his mother’s prayers, 
seethed relentlessly through his mind. ‘For five 
talents of gold,” said an ancient sage to one of his 
time, “I will teach thee the secret of remember- 
ing.” ‘Ten talents shalt thou have,” was the reply, 
‘Sf thou wilt teach me to forget.”” And Barabbas 
would cheerfully have handed over all his treasure 
hoarded in the hills could he have found oblivion. 
Flinging himself on the ground, he hid his face in 
his hands, and tears to which his eyes had long 
been stranger, coursed down his cheeks. 

The hours passed, and still he remained. He was 
roused by a hand upon his shoulder, and he looked 
up, startled. It was a woman. Her eyes were 
luminous with grief, and her voice gentle: 

“Thou art Barabbas, art thou not? I have come 
to speak comfort to thee. My sorrow is great, but 
doubtless thine is greater. Jesus is dead!” 

The uncouth fellow stumbled to his feet, and took 


136 Cameos from Calvary 


her hand understandingly. In some indefinable way, 
she reminded him of that mother of whom he had 
been thinking. She was about the age his mother 
had been when he quitted home for the last time; 
there was also the same, tender look in her face. 

“Thou art His mother, perchance?” 

“Nay, not His mother. My name is Joanna. I 
am the wife of Chuza, of Herod’s household. Jesus 
came to us when our son lay stricken with mortal 
illness, and gave him back to us from the hand of 
death. He is my Saviour... .” 

‘‘And my Substitute!” Barabbas passed his hand 
across his eyes, and then said, ‘‘He died instead of 
me. I know now that it was unjust that He should 
suffer so. How He must hate one like me!”’ 

“Or love thee! Knowest thou not that this is 
indeed the Christ? Some of us have sought to 
share His service for the common good. We have 
ministered to Him of our substance. Yet greater 
have been our privileges. We have heard His gra- 
cious words, and have seen Him bring relief and 
gladness to hearts burdened like thine. Yea, and 
He hath told His friends that He should suffer for 
the redemption of the race, so that the vilest might 
be cleansed, and the estranged be brought back to 
the heart of God.” 

Barabbas pressed the woman’s hand. He tried 
to voice his gratitude, but no sound left his lips. He 
leapt forward like one whose bands were indeed 
severed, and sped down the hill as though joy had 
given winged sandals to his feet. Whither did he 
go? Was it back to the home where two aged 
folk sat solitary in the evening of life, that he might 
tell them of his new-found hope? We cannot tell. 


Barabbas or Christ? 137 


‘As his form was swallowed up in the gloom of that 
memorable afternoon, so his tracks are covered over 
by the dust of the centuries. 

Yet we may find his counterpart in fiction. Jean 
Valjean, that striking figure in Les Miserables, a 
convict released from the galleys, found his way 
shadowed by his own black past. Man’s inhumanity 
maddens him. But he comes at length to the house 
of a saintly bishop, where he is treated with hos- 
pitable kindness. As they sit at the table together, 
and he notes the way in which he has been received, 
he says with deep earnestness, ‘You are good, and 
do not despise me. You receive me as a friend, and 
yet I have not hidden from you whence I come, 
and that I am an unfortunate fellow.’”’ The bishop 
gently touched his hand. ‘You need not have told 
me who you were. This is not my house, but the 
house of Christ. This door does not ask a man who 
enters whether he has a name, but if he has a sor- 
row; you are suffering, you are hungry and thirsty, 
and so be welcome. . . . Why do I want to know 
your name? Besides, before you told it to me, you 
had one which I knew.” “Is that true? You know 
my name?” ‘‘Yes,” the bishop answered. ‘‘You 
are my brother!’ The work of redemption had 
only begun. During the night, unable to resist the 
temptation, Valjean stole the silver plate, only to be 
arrested and brought back at daylight. But instead 
of taking his property from the gendarmes, the old 
bishop reached for the two silver candlesticks with 
which the table had been adorned the night before, 
and handing them also to the bewildered man, he 
said, quietly but authoritatively, “Jean Valjean, my 
brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good. I 


138 Cameos from Calvary 


have bought your soul of you. I withdraw it from 
black thoughts and the spirit of perdition, and I 
give it to God.” 

That was the turning-point in the convict’s life; 
and truth is stranger than fiction. ‘There are cases, 
I grant you,” writes Mrs. Humphry Ward, ‘‘cases 
of impenitent wickedness—where the higher law is 
suspended, finds no chance to act... . But the 
higher law is always there. If love has the smallest 
room to work, if forgiveness can find the narrowest 
foothold, love and forgiveness are imposed upon, 
demanded of, the Christian.’”’ And we may add, 
they are also required of the Divine heart. Barab- 
bas could not look into the face of Christ without 
feeling the intensity of His compassion, nor with- 
out realizing that he no longer belonged to evil, but 
to good. Christ had died for him; henceforth he 
must live for Christ. While only in a physical sense 
did Jesus die for him, yet in a larger and truer sense 
He died for all. He identified Himself with man 
in his misery and shame. Paul declares that truth 
with the utmost conviction. ‘The Lord of glory laid 
aside His kingly state humbling Himself to man’s 
need, and assuming the nature of the race estranged. 
He lived out the perfect life of obedience, revealing 
not only what God is like, but what man himself 
ought to be. Through years of patient labour, and 
through the days of His public ministry, “the beauty 
of holiness” gleamed on His brow. ‘Then in one 
unique sacrifice, He demonstrated both God’s hatred 
of sin, and His matchless love for the sinful. Peter 
puts it: “He suffered, the Just for the unjust, that 
He might bring us to God,” even as by His revela- 
tion, He had brought God to us. It was not that 


Barabbas or Christ? 139 


the Innocent suffered in order that the guilty might 
escape, as in the case of Barabbas. It was rather 
that, sin’s consequences removed, and Love’s sacri- 
fice for the soul thus offered, man might know the 
tenderness of God, and be won from disobedience 
and shame to a life of fellowship and joy. Making 
peace for us through the blood of His cross, in that 
sense Christ is our Substitute, for with His stripes 
we are healed. 

Yet now, the position seems to be reversed. In- 
stead of Christ being the substitute for man, man 
seeks a substitute for Christ. At least, that is a 
fair construction to place on the vogue which various 
cults enjoy. We may observe, in passing, that 
though they may try to displace Christ, they cannot 
replace Him. Test any of them in certain direc- 
tions. What they offer that is pure, lovely, and of 
good report, is already found in fullest degree in 
Jesus Christ. Can any give us a loftier concept of 
life than Jesus gave? “In Him was light, and the 
life was the light of men.” Can they give us a 
nobler concept of God? ‘He that hath seen Me 
hath seen the Father.” Can they break the power 
of sin, give a new dynamic to life, or, apart from the 
Christian revelation, yield a more satisfying and 
sane faith in immortality? Without being unduly 
dogmatic, we affirm that, tested in these ways, they 
are all found wanting. There is no real substitute 
for Christ. Yet He is kept still at the bar of public 
opinion awaiting man’s choice between Himself and 
Barabbas. The history of modern times shows how 
again the man of violence is chosen rather than the 
Man of love. Nations have allowed themselves to 
be dragged behind the armoured chariot of the 


140 Cameos from Calvary 


militarist, and the simple counsel of Cowper has 
gone unheeded: 


““War’s a game, which, were their subjects wise, 
Kings would not play at. Nations would do well 
To extort their truncheons from the puny hands 
Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds 
Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil 
Because men suffer it, their toy, the world.” 


Men have permitted unworthy standards to be set 
up in the market-place often in spite of their better 
judgment. The Barabbas of greed and dishonesty 
has been acclaimed by the crowd, and even those 
who disapprove, have yet been shouted down in the 
name of expediency rather than make themselves 
unpopular by asserting their own views with too 
much insistence. Only as the great, sad world, 
burdened with its needs and its feeling of inade- 
quacy, turns to Him, can it discover that ‘‘this Man 
shall be our peace.”’ Happily, however, there is a 
growing number of those who, even as at Calvary, 
discern the true value of the Saviour of men. ‘They 
know what He has done for them, and what He can 
accomplish. ‘Their faith is contagious. Others are 
being brought to see that Love is an eternal factor 
in the universe. And when the Sermon on the 
Mount becomes practical politics, a solution will 
be found for world problems. ‘Then shall the race 
no longer give its suffrages to Barabbas, but to 
Jesus which is called Christ. 


Xx 
THE CROSS-BEARER 


“They compel one Simon, a Cyrenian, who 
passed by, coming out of the country ... 
to bear His cross.’’ 

—MAarkK 15:21. 


HE excited mob which left the Prztorium, 
having made Pilate yield to its imperious de- 
mands, set out for the Hill. It surged like impotent 
waves against the bulwark of steel encircling Jesus. 
Then it divided at the city gates. Some of the 
people ran ahead to get through first; the rest were 
thrust aside, and must perforce wait till the guard 
passed on. Wildly gesticulating, they yelled their 
ribald jests at the figure within the lines of spears. 
But with unbroken step, the column marched on, 
down the sloping way, through the gates, and out 
beyond. Not a gleam of interest showed in the im- 
mobile faces of the soldiers. Moving with measured 
precision, they kept their way, where the ground 
began to climb to Golgotha. Suddenly, an order 
rang out. The column halted. The Prisoner had 
collapsed; the weight of the cross was too much for 
Him. That is easily understood. The real human- 
ity of our Lord is indisputable. It was Friday, and 
He had not slept since the Wednesday night. He 
was weak from loss of blood as well as of sleep. 


142 Cameos from Calvary 


Since the paschal meal early on the previous eve- 
ning, He had eaten nothing. ‘To all of which must 
be added the long and agonizing ordeal through 
which He had passed. What that hour in Geth- 
semane meant, none could know but the Saviour 
who came to redeem the race. But even that was 
not all which filled His cup. There had been the 
trials, the lying accusations and hatred, the scourg- 
ing that laid open His sacred back—surely enough 
to weaken the stoutest frame! But it was not the 
actual weight of the cross, but its spiritual signifi- 
cance which made it so grievous a load. And He 
sank in His tracks. 

The patience of the centurion was limited. If 
Jesus could not carry the cross, some one must! But 
no Jew would touch the accursed thing; the Feast 
was at hand, and he would incur defilement. No 
Roman could; it were unthinkable for those who 
had to uphold the dignity of the conqueror. That 
is obvious from Mark’s Gospel. “They compel one 
Simon, a Cyrenian, to bear His cross.”” At once we 
are interested in this man. How came he to be 
there at the psychological moment, and why was he 
selected? The fact that he is described as a 
Cyrenian is significant. Cyrene was a city of North 
Africa, and the capital of a province lying between 
Carthage and Alexandria. It corresponded roughly 
with what is now Tripoli. Originally a Greek settle- 
ment, after the Jewish Dispersion it became popu- 
lated with Hebrews. They formed such a large 
part of the community that Alexander gave them 
equal rights of citizenship with the Greek popula- 
tion, and ultimately trade sprang up between Cyrene 
and Jerusalem. A number of merchants became 


The Cross-Bearer 143 


resident in the Holy City, and a synagogue was set 
apart for their specific use. 

Though this does not answer our question about 
Simon, it leads us towards a conclusion. If he were 
from Africa, his appearance would be suficiently 
striking to attract the officer’s attention. An Arab 
in native garb walking through the streets of 
London or New York would not be as conspicuous 
as Simon was. He did not look in the least like a 
Jewish pilgrim, and therefore would not have any 
susceptibilities to offend. So seeming to be a suit- 
able man for the purpose, he is roughly led between 
the files of the cohort. The cross is adjusted on his 
back, and the procession resumes its way. But now 
the piteous wailing of women is heard. Moved by 
the suffering of the Victim, they lift their voices in 
lament. Perhaps there were some in that group 
whose children had felt that Divine hand laid in 
blessing on their heads; perchance, some whose dear 
ones had been restored to health, or given back from 
the grisly hold of death. But Jesus bids them not 
to weep for Him, but rather shed penitential tears 
for their land with its iniquities. He is beyond 
human aid; but their prayers may yet avail for their 
callous nation. 

The sinews of Simon are more than equal to their 
task, and through the dust flung up by the crowd, at 
last, panting, he lays the cross down on Calvary’s 
crest. And as he wipes the perspiration from his 
brow, he sees that he, with the three who have now 
been brought to execution, are surrounded by the 
soldiers. The mob is kept at bay while the victims 
are stretched out, and the nails driven home; but 
Simon is a privileged onlooker. The crosses are 


144 Cameos from Calvary 


lifted up by stout arms, set in position, and the 
ground trodden firmly about the base of each. A 
quaternion together with the centurion is left in 
charge, while the centuria, under the command of 
a junior officer, marches back. ‘Then the rabble 
bursts in, eager to enjoy itself without restraint. 

How long Simon remained near the cross we can- 
not say, but he was in a position to see and hear 
everything. The anger of the rulers and the 
stoicism of the soldiers, would be flung into violent 
contrast with the patience of Jesus. What effect 
would all this have upon this man who had been, so 
unceremoniously, made one of the chief actors in 
the drama? Is it possible to say? ‘Though he was 
a native of Cyrene, he was also a Jew, and had come 
to Jerusalem for the Passover. This also indicates 
a spiritual enquirer. He had renounced the faith of 
his forebears, and had embraced Judaism. ‘That 
was an advance on anything he had known. Per- 
haps he became aware of a disparity between pre- 
cept and practice as he came in contact with the 
religious life of the capital. But he was a traveller 
on the road of truth, and his destination lay beyond 
the unsatisfactory inns of human fallibility. How- 
ever, he had come to observe the solemn Feast. His 
lodging was outside the city. The phrase, “coming 
out of the country,” proves that, as well as the fact 
that, to one of his race, accustomed to open spaces, 
the high buildings and narrow streets of the city 
would be unbearable. Besides, accommodation was 
at a premium within the walls themselves. 

But did he know anything of Jesus before that 
hour? Perhaps he had listened to the gossip of 
the previous evening. His fellow-pilgrims, a pro- 


The Cross-Bearer 145° 


miscuous company, gathered for a while under the 
roof of this hostelry, had much to say of this Gali- 
lean Teacher. With unrestrained merriment, one 
told how He had equalized matters with the cheat- 
ing money-changers in the Temple. Another told 
of the marvellous cures He was reputed to have 
wrought. But a third, admitting that Jesus had 
silenced His critics, hazarded the opinion that they 
would yet prove too strong even for Him. Let 
Him fall into the hands of the implacable Annas, 
and there would be little hope for Him! 

Of course, they did not know what had already 
taken place. The secret moves had been too jeal- 
ously guarded. But when Simon came on that 
turbulent crowd outside the gates, and asked some 
the name of this Man who was being led to execu- 
tion, he was staggered. It was the Nazarene—the 
very Man they had been discussing! And then he, 
of all men, was made to carry the cross. Never was 
his strength used to such an end; never had such an 
honour—as it was yet to prove—come his way. 
Though men might revile him, might count this the 
grossest indignity that could be laid on a human 
creature, it was to be ultimately the highest honour 
mortal man could know—to share the travail of 
the Son of God. 

So much for the Cyrenian, but what resulted from 
his deed? If he were a stranger in Jerusalem, it is 
surely singular that the writers of the Gospels knew 
his name! We look at him again, standing by the 
cross, striving to readjust what he had heard of 
Jesus with what Jesus had said to him. Then our 
Lord spoke to this man as they journeyed towards 
the mount of anguish? ‘That is beyond doubt. He 


146 Cameos from Calvary 


who commended the cup of cold water, who gave 
His word of grateful appreciation to the woman 
who poured out her spikenard on His feet, who had 
a message of comfort for the weeping daughters of 
Jerusalem, could not walk silent beside this man 
who had rendered such timely aid. Christ’s sur- 
charged heart would go out to this burly fellow who 
bore the cross. About what He said we dare not 
even speculate. ‘The fact that the Evangelists are 
silent shows how sacred Simon felt that word to 
be. But love captured his rugged soul. And he 
lingered by the side of the Crucified. Yet seeing the 
disdainful looks of those who: 


“Drew back their garment’s hem 
For fear of defilement,” 


the curious gaze of others who scorned him for the 
assistance he had rendered, he turned away. He 
had become uneasy. Unwittingly, he had been an 
accomplice. He had helped to crucify this Man. 
Suppose it were, as the crowd mockingly suggested, 
the wondrous Messiah so long expected? He had 
passed beyond the taunting Elders and the bawling 
spectators. His soul was sick, and he was un- 
decided whether to resume his way to the city, or 
to remain until he had seen the end, when he heard 
some one speaking. 

‘Art thou not he who carried the cross?’ The 
speaker had a Galilean accent, and concluding this 
was a sympathizer of Jesus, at once Simon took up 
the defensive, suspecting summary vengeance. 

‘Truly, but it was under compulsion of the sol- 
ciers that, 


The Cross-Bearer 147 


“That thou didst lighten His load, while I but 
made it heavier!” ‘The speaker flung up his arms 
with a gesture of despair. ‘Thou canst not under- 
stand what I mean. Thou art a stranger here, art 
thou not? What is thy name?” 

‘““My name is Simon; I am of Cyrene.” 

“Simon? My name is Simon also—Simon Peter 
—and I was of His company, but now... Come, 
let us talk together.” 

Between the two men who had something in 
common, it is not surprising if a warm and enduring 
friendship sprang up. ‘They both had been in the 
company of Christ; they had each had a part in 
that sorrowful hour; and though for different 
reasons, both felt they were outcasts from the pale 
of decent men. But best of all, there was a deep 
affection for Jesus in the souls of both. And that 
explains why we have these particulars of Simon 
the Cyrenian—he became a disciple of Jesus Christ. 
The cross-bearer developed into a witness of the 
truth to which he had been so strangely led. 

What singular blessings come along the line of 
God’s providences. Sometimes our plans, like those 
of Simon, are thwarted, and obstacles impede our 
progress along the path we chose. Our course is 
altered without any reason we can adduce. But 
“the steps of a good man are ordered of the Lord.” 
When Simon was delayed by the passing throng, 
his first feeling may have been one of annoyance, but 
therein was revealed God’s purpose. Nor was his 
the only case. ‘‘Man proposes; God disposes,” 
quotes the author of the Jmitatio. There is ample 
proof of that. David Livingstone originally pro- 
posed to go to China, but God chose Africa. Duff 


148 Cameos from Calvary 


selected Africa, Alexander Mackay wished to go to 
Madagascar, while that great apostle of China, 
Griffith John, planned to give his life to India. But 
when the heart is willing to obey the leading of 
Christ, then the highest good is accomplished. 

Dr. Marcus Dods, a brilliant man of parts, felt 
the call to the ministry. He swept every other con- 
sideration aside, and set himself to prepare for that 
arduous task. But when his course was at length 
completed, there were years of bitter disappoint- 
ment. Though he had that inward conviction that 
God had thus summoned him to this high calling, no 
church invited him to become its minister during 
all those years of waiting. Yet he remained constant 
_ to his mission, and in the end, gloriously vindicated 

the faith which had kept him true. 

One of the most gifted members of the Anglican 
Church was nearly lost to its pulpit. We refer to 
the revered F. W. Robertson, of Brighton. He 
came of military stock; his father was a soldier, as 
his grandfather had been. His brothers were all 
engaged in the same profession, and at last the day 
came when he also could take the same step. He 
was gazetted to the 3rd Dragoon Guards, and 
doubtless his feeling was that to this end he was 
born, and for this cause had he come into the world. 
But a higher goal, for which he was certainly fitted 
by God, came in sight. An insistent summons 
sounded in his heart: he felt called to the service 
of the church. Why had not the call come earlier, 
when it would have been so much easier to decide? 
That was not the point which weighed with him. 
He divested himself of his uniform, and laid aside 
the sword he had been so ambitious to wear. With 


The Cross-Bearer 149 


it, he surrendered all his plans and his career in the 
army. ‘The only things he took with him into his 
new vocation were the fortitude, steadfastness, and 
high sense of duty, which characterized his life. 
The call to the cross was a challenge; strength to 
respond came with it. The latent greatness of his 
soul sprang into activity, and he reaped his unfading 
reward. 

Simon, the cross-bearer, was called forth to a 
larger service by the commissioning Spirit. He had 
been faithful in that which was least; he should have 
an opportunity of showing his sterling worth in other 
ways. There is a lovely legend which says .that 
when Jesus had completed His work on earth, the 
angel Gabriel asked Him, “What plans hast Thou 
made, Lord, for carrying on Thy ministry? How 
are all men to know what Thou hast done?” “IT 
left it to Peter, and James, and John, and Martha 
and Mary, to tell their friends, and their friends 
to tell their friends, until the whole world has 
heard,” replied Jesus. “But suppose Peter is so 
busy with his nets, and Martha so full of her house- 
work, or the friends they tell so occupied, that they 
forget to tell their friends, how can the whole world 
hear?’ ‘Then Jesus said, “I have not made any 
other plans; J am counting on them!” And Simon 
was one on whom the Master was depending. 
Though he might not tell of what had passed be- 
tween Christ and himself, he must speak of the love 
awakened in his soul, and the discovery he had 
made. As he had first passed from the gloom of 
his own religion to the dim dawn of Judaism, so he 
had been led into the glorious light of the Sun of 
Righteousness. 


150 Cameos from Calvary 


The story of the Christian Church warrants that 
statement. We find that in Antioch there were 
some ‘‘men of Cyprus and Cyrene .. . preaching 
the Lord Jesus” (Acts 11:20). A little later, the 
names of some of those who were at work are 
given: ‘‘Barnabas, and Simeon that was called 
Niger, and Lucius, of Cyrene.” ‘This affords two 
interesting facts. One is that Simon, or Simeon 
as he is styled here, had become a preacher of the 
Gospel to those of his own tongue. ‘The other fur- 
nishes a hint of that which made him so conspicu- 
ous that day when a cross-bearer was sought— 
‘Simeon that is called Niger”’ Even if he were 
not as black as an African, he would be more 
swarthy than the people around him, and he would 
thus be noted as a man on whom such a hateful 
duty could be laid without protest. 

Simon’s satisfaction in his discipleship was not 
only in its effect upon himself, but also on his 
family. Mark describes him as “‘the father of Alex- 
ander and Rufus.” The names are given without 
any explanation as to their position. The inference 
is that they were well-known. ‘This is worthy of 
note. Who were these two young men? Alex- 
ander was one of Paul’s associates. They were 
together in Ephesus, and when the riot broke out 
with the resounding shouts of ‘Great is Diana of 
the Ephesians,” it was Alexander who stepped forth 
to endeavour to appease the anger of the populace. 
When we turn to the Epistle to the Romans, among 
the various salutations with which the letter con- 
cludes, we read, “Salute Rufus, chosen in the Lord, 
and his mother and mine.” ‘That indicates that 
not only was Rufus prominent in the church there, 


The Cross-Bearer 15] 


but also that his mother had been of such service to 
the Apostle that he regarded her almost as a 
mother. 

The data are insufficient, yet we venture to recon- 
struct the course of events following the crucifixion. 
Simon, having joined the company of the Apostles, 
was perhaps among those who waited for the 
anointing of the Holy Spirit. His way was clearly 
defined. He could no longer continue his ordinary 
avocation after being the cross-bearer of Christ. 
He must devote his life to spreading the story of 
Calvary. His wife and their two sons yield their 
hearts to Christ, and in due course, Alexander and 
Rufus take up the same noble mission. Their 
mother’s gifts were of a quieter order, but she 
rendered effectual service to the cause, as Paul’s ref- 
erence shows. So Simon’s brief fellowship had far- 
reaching results. He did not know the tremendous 
significance of what he had done for the stricken 
Saviour. The cloud of tragedy overspread him in 
that hour. He had no choice in what he did, we 
admit; yet as a duty required of him, he did it will- 
ingly. ‘Our whole happiness and power of ener- 
getic action,’ says Ruskin, ‘depend on our being 
able to breathe and live in the cloud; content to see 
it opening here and there; rejoicing to catch through 
the thinnest films of it, glimpses of stable and sub- 
stantial things; but yet perceiving a nobleness even 
in concealment.” That has peculiar force for those 
who, like Simon, are called to take up the cross and 
follow Christ. ‘The cross is not only the symbol of 
sacrificial service, as it became the badge of the 
Crusaders; it is also the pledge of victory. Before 
the battle of Milvium Bridge, Constantine saw a 


2 Cameos from Calvary 


vision. He beheld a cross shining in the sky, and 
a voice seemed to say, ‘‘By this conquer!” ‘The 
Roman eagles on his standards were supplanted by 
the cross. And it is by the cross of Jesus Christ, 
and by that only, that the world can be won for 
Him. Blessing will inevitably follow as night is 
swallowed up in day. It will flood our own hearts, 
as in the case of Simon; it will also flow to others 
in ever-increasing volume. For next to the privi- 
lege of serving his Master in that hour of need, was 
the joy that those who were dearest to him had also 
been called to be the means of enriching other hearts 
and spreading the Saviour’s sway. 

Not in one sublime act of faith alone, but all 
through life, are we called to this high service. It 
combines duty and privilege. And there is this to 
remember for our encouragement: he who bears the 
cross of Christ walks by the side of the Master Him- 
self. Can we then be discouraged when the day is 
long, and the progress slow? ‘‘Remember, if you 
lose heart about your work,’ counsels Charles 
Kingsley, ‘“‘that none of it is lost; that the good of 
every good deed remains, and breeds, and works on 
for ever; and all that fails and is lost is the outside 
shell of the thing, which, perhaps, might have been 
better done, but better or worse has nothing to do 
with the real spiritual good which you have done to 
men’s hearts, for which God will surely repay you 
in His own way and time.”’ Can it be that we have 
narrowed down our Master’s meaning when He 
bade all men take up that cross of daily denial and 
faithful endurance? We have, naturally, become 
so accustomed to think of it in the light of His, that 
we make it synonymous with suffering and privation. 


The Cross-Bearer 153 


It is taken up in the dull spirit of resignation as 
something which cannot be avoided. Yet that is not 
the entire meaning of His challenging word. To 
Simon, it was an experience that blossomed into 
luscious fruit. It certainly shut him off from the 
old ways of life. The plans he formed for that 
morning were completely reversed. And God’s 
providences sometimes mean reversal. Yet every 
reverse is big with opportunity for something 
greater. Life commenced in that hour!  Ad- 
mittedly, cross-bearing may bring at first limitation; 
then, eventually, the cross becomes no more a burden 
to the devoted heart than wings are to a bird, and 
power to soar may be ours. Strength and moral 
maturity are thus brought within reach of the soul. 
We need not shrink from anything of God’s ordain- 
ing. His wisdom would not permit, His love could 
not allow, anything that cannot be turned to the 
fullest blessing. And so ‘‘E’en though it be a cross 
that raiseth me” the heart can exult. It stands for 
privilege as well as responsibility, service and com- 
panionship as well as suffering; and with the sublime 
optimism of Whittier each may declare: 


“Others shall sing the song, 
Others shall right the wrong, 
Finish what I begin, 

And all I fail of, win. 
What matter, I or they! 
Mine or another’s day, 

So the right word is said, 
And life the sweeter made?” 


XI 
THE CHRIST OF CALVARY 


“And when they were come to the place 
which is called Calvary, there they cruct- 
fied Him.” 

—LUKE 23: 33. 


HAT love with which God so loved the world 

is too wonderful for human language to ex- 
press. There are depths in the Pacific that have 
not yet been sounded. ‘There are deeps in the ocean 
of Divine love that must ever remain unplumbed. 
All we have seen of human ingratitude as Jesus was 
hounded to death, coupled with what we know of 
man’s wickedness, moves us to ask, Why should God 
love a world like this? The modern man is dis- 
illusioned, and makes no secret of the fact. He once 
cherished high ideals. Indeed, he believed in the 
heroic qualities of chivalry, sacrificial service for 
others, and the subordinating of self to some great 
aim. But now things are different. He feels there 
is no end to the misery and wretchedness of human- 
ity. Cut off one evil, and the hydra-headed mon- 
ster which threatens human welfare reappears in 
another direction. Uproot this form of tyranny or 
that, and a score of new iniquities spring up. ‘The 
world itself is beautiful enough, but the people in 
it. ..! There is so much requiring an explana- 
tion. Cruel wrongs are perpetrated, and the evil- 

154 


The Christ of Calvary 55 


doer goes scot-free. Unscrupulous men succeed, and 
the righteous go to the wall. Strife and struggle, 
toil and tears, are never far removed from man’s 
lot. And is it possible for God to love the world? 
As the thoughtful know only too well, they have 
failed a thousand times to keep faith with the high- 
est. And if man is disappointed with himself, how 
much more must God grieve over human declension 
and failure! If he who has striven and fallen comes 
to loathe himself for his wrong-doing, how much 
more serious is the evil of those who not only commit 
wickedness, but persistently plan some new villainy? 
And yet this is the world which God gave His Son 
to redeem! It seems incredible. 

It may seem so, yet nothing is impossible with 
God except acquiescence in things as they are. The 
Divine Father could not placidly regard man’s re- 
bellion, nor can He, being Holy Love, remain in- 
active. While we often find it difficult to discrimi- 
nate between the sinner and his sin, God does. That 
prophet who described the unfathomable love of 
God as akin to a mother’s affection for her child 
brings us within sight of the truth. There is a bond 
binding God to man. ‘The babe which lies tossing 
in the grip of disease, its little face distorted with 
pain, is a parable of the race. Its suffering brings 
anguish to the heart watching by its bed. And while 
all that skill and sympathy can do is being done, 
love is yet the mainspring. So the Father looks on 
the havoc sin has wrought, and His heart grieves 
for, as well as suffers with, its victims. In spite of 
its sinfulness, God’s love centres on the race, and 
where sin abounds, grace abounds yet more. What- 
ever may be said, the world cannot do without God. 


156 Cameos from Calvary 


The waif of the city streets, lashed by the pitiless 
rain, hungry and cold, is the more pitiable because 
he has no heart to which he can turn for sympathy 
and succour. Such is man when he has permitted 
evil to estrange him from his Father. He did not 
understand fully the consequences of his evil choice 
when first he spurned the good, and took to ways 
of sin. But like the mountain torrent that slowly 
carves its course, there is a gradual widening and 
deepening of its bed until communication with the 
two banks is impossible. We have seen sin divid- 
ing man from his fellow. Coleridge describes two 
such separated lives: 


“They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
Like cliffs that had been rent asunder; 
A dreary sea now flows between; 
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
The marks of that which once hath been.” 


Yet if the severance be between God and man, how 
can the love of the Father allow His sons to go 
their way to even deeper shame and despair? He is 
compassionate because He is love. And love must 
sacrifice itself for the sake of its beloved. 

We turn to Greek mythology for an illuminating 
picture. Prometheus, beholding from high Olympus 
the suffering sons of men in the world below, was 
moved to feel for their unhappy lot. The gods 
cared little how men strove for peace and happiness. 
So he bore fire from heaven, and kindled on the 
dark earth those glowing hopes that gave new 
courage for the conflict with nature and evil. Zeus 
was angry. He commanded that Prometheus should 


The Chrest of Calvary ling) 


be punished for his undignified sympathy with the 
forlorn. His sentence was that the unhappy god 
should be impaled on a rock, where a vulture should 
tear his vitals, and where in torture he must expiate 
his offence. But when they crucified Jesus on Cal- 
vary, He suffered not for His own offence, as did 
Prometheus, but on account of the sins of others. 
He came not because of the anger of the Deity, but 
because of His infinite love. He came, not as the 
Schoolmen taught in the Middle Ages, to pay a price 
to the offended Father so that He would look 
favourably on His sinful children. We see how 
false that is of One whose heart was filled with 
erieved yet profoundest love. But as Paul un- 
hesitatingly affirms, Christ was the revelation of 
the Divine tenderness towards those who were 
estranged. “God was in Christ, reconciling the 
world unto Himself.” And as the Fourth Gospel 
says, “God so loved the world that He gave His 
only-begotten Son.” 

We need not ask how it is possible for the finite 
to comprehend the Infinite. In spite of the familiar 
maxim of John Stuart Mill, God is not the Unknow- 
able. He has revealed Himself in Jesus as the giver 
is often shown in the gift. And the Father’s heart 
is laid bare. There is a poignant passage in one 
of Guy Thorne’s books. Sir Basil Speke, one of the 
most distinguished judges of the King’s Bench, was 
bitterly disappointed in his son, and he says, ‘“‘God 
knows, I try to look on the bright side of things. 
But despair comes over me only too often. One or 
other of my colleagues on the bench is always com- 
ing up to me, and telling me of some victory won 
by a son. ‘My young rascal got his first in Greats, 


158 Cameos from Calvary 


Speke; ‘pon my word, I’m more nervous about it 
than I was over my own degree examination.’ Or 
else, ‘My lad was at Windsor last week with his 
chief—the secretaries always go, you know—and 
the King spoke to him, and said he had heard very 
well of him from Sir Henry. Very satisfactory, 
was itnot?’? And I have to congratulate some beam- 
ing old fellow, with a sick heart. I can’t very well 
turn round and say, ‘Well, my young rascal has 
just been sent down from Oxford for drink and 
gambling!’ ” 

That is only an imperfect portrait of a human 
father, but it bears a distinct resemblance to the 
Divine. In both cases, there is a parent’s heart, 
heavy with disappointment and sorrow. Yet where 
the human may break down under the strain, the 
Divine love persists. Where the former may be 
unable to awaken a better life, the latter, like the 
warm kiss of the sun in Spring, may stir the clods, 
and woo the dormant life to beauty and fragrance. 
For God is patient, as well as powerful. He sees 
possibilities of good where our eyes discern nothing 
of promise, and the work of redemption may pro- 
duce marvellous effects where grace is allowed to 
operate. [here is a wonderful painting of the 
Madonna and the Child in a gallery in Italy. It is 
from the brush of Raphael, and is the more fasci- 
nating because of its halo of romance. When 
Napoleon captured Milan, and then advanced on 
Bergamo, the art treasures of both places were col- 
lected by his orders, and despatched to Paris. But 
to save this cherished canvas from such a fate, an 
artist swiftly painted a crude landscape over the 
original. It was such a poor thing that the picture 


The Chrest of Calvary | 159 


was passed over as valueless. The artist, with be- 
coming modesty, had not signed his work, and in the 
confusion of later times, the priceless Raphael was 
lost. It was not until many years had elapsed that 
the hastily applied colours, probably to the dismay 
of the man who had acquired it, began to crack and 
peel. ‘Then, to the astonishment of art lovers, the 
masterpiece was discovered. It was restored, and 
now the fair faces of the Virgin and her Son look 
out in serene beauty from the gallery of Bergamo. 

To some extent that explains God’s love for the 
race. It shows why Christ had such compassion for 
the poor, defiled creatures round Him during His 
ministry, and thronging about His cross. The 
Pharisees could see nothing of value in these men 
and women whom Jesus loved. But He discerned 
the real worth of the soul, and the beauty of the 
Godlike beneath the flaming hues of passion, and 
the sombre shades of sorrow and sin. Like the lov- 
ing hands which restored that Raphael, Christ 
brought back the glow of spiritual health to those 
long dead in trespasses and sins. Our Father is mir- 
rored for us by Jesus in various ways. ‘The shep- 
herd scouring the bleak mountain in quest of the 
sheep which was lost; the woman turning her room 
out, searching for the piece of silver; the father of 
the Prodigal, unable to sleep, and pacing the roof 
after dark, praying constantly for his son’s return, 
even while he pictured to himself the excesses into 
which the boy had fallen—these all make plain the 
love which passes knowledge. 

Yet Calvary shows the climax of human per- 
versity. Those who had thus taken the Son of God, 
nailing Him to the cross, did not do so in utter 


160 Cameos from Calvary 


ignorance. Their light may not have been as clear 
as our own. But they had been prepared for the 
coming of the Messiah by the saints and seers of 
the past. They had heard for themselves the gra- 
cious message of love, till, time after time, they 
wondered at the gracious words which proceeded out 
of His mouth. They had seen mighty works done, 
the like of which had never been known. Lepers 
were cleansed, the blind received their sight, even 
the dead were raised to life. Christ had made His 
appeal to such works, for even His critics admitted 
that He had wrought these miracles before them. 
But when thus confronted with indisputable proof of 
the power He wielded, there was this way of evad- 
ing the issue: such works were done by the agency 
of evil spirits. It did not seem to occur to them 
that the spirit of evil was not likely to express it- 
self in kindliness and good. And so, in spite of all 
which might have led them into the light, they chose 
the darkness of their own perverse ways, and “there 
they crucified Him.”’ In vain, apparently, had the 
Good Father tried to speak to the human heart! 
Not only in daily provision and daily reminders of 
Himself,—though each morning might have glad- 
dened the heart with its dew-spangled flowers, or 
the matin song of the bird upon the swaying branch, 
—but in that superb life had the message come, re- 
buking what was low, awakening aspiration for what 
was pure and noble. Jack London writes of one 
who was thus moved by the exalted soul of a woman. 
“No word, nor clue, nor hint of the Divine had ever 
reached him before. He had never believed in the 
Divine. He had always been irreligious, scoffing. 
Her purity smote him like a blow. It startled him. 


The Chrest of Calvary 161 


He had known good or bad, but purity as an at- 
tribute of existence he had never known. His mood 
was essentially religious. He was humble and meek, 
filled with self-disparagement and amazement. In 
such a frame of mind sinners come to the penitent 
form. He was convicted of sin.’ And yet those 
who were privileged to be God’s ministers in the 
Temple, those who were children of the Covenant, 
those who had looked on the unique life of Jesus, 
the Christ, were unmoved, impenitent, uninspired? 
Surely in that hour, if never before, they might have 
been led into the light. Rousseau makes a telling 
comparison between Christ and Socrates. ‘‘What 
a difference,’ he exclaims, “between the son of 
Sophroniscus and the Son of Mary! Socrates dies 
with honour, surrounded by his disciples listening 
to the most tender words—the easiest death that 
one could wish to die. Jesus dies in pain, dis- 
honoured, mocked, the object of universal cursing— 
the most horrible death which one could fear. At 
the receipt of the cup of poison, Socrates blesses him 
who could not give it him without tears; Jesus while 
suffering the sharpest pains, prays for His most. 
bitter enemies. If Socrates lived and died like a 
philosopher, Jesus lived and died like a God.” 
Calvary is the consummation of Christ’s mission 
to mankind. ‘There is no real comparison between 
the death of Socrates and that of our Saviour, for 
the reason that He was the world’s Redeemer. He 
offered in His life a representative obedience as the 
head of a new humanity. And in His sacrificial 
death, He proved that love is mightier than hate, 
and God’s unfathomed affection greater than even 
man’s waywardness and folly. In Him, the 


162 Cameos from Calvary 


alienated were reconciled; the dread and misunder- 
standing engendered by sin were removed. ‘There 
was no bitterness, no hate of the sinner in God’s 
fatherly heart; only love—love which burned at 
white heat against all that is evil and detrimental to 
man’s highest welfare, yet love which draws into 
happy fellowship and saintly living. 

Far from being conquered by His opponents, 
Christ was the conqueror. His pity and His prayers 
for them indicate that. But even more clearly is 
that seen in His triumphant resurrection and His 
growing power in the world. In spite of all that 
the pessimist may say and the statistician adduce, 
there never was a time when men’s hearts were more 
willing to exchange the weariness and unsatisfactori- 
ness of the present day for the glorious liberty of 
Christ’s rule. And though the hour of His corona- 
tion may be far distant, the Christian heart can toil 
on with firm faith and undaunted courage, knowing 
that the conquering and unconquerable Christ shall 
be lifted up. He shall draw all men unto Him, and 
His dominion shall be from sea to sea. 


XII 
THE TWO MALEFACTORS 


“There they crucified Him, and the male- 
factors, one on the right hand, and the 
other on the left.’ 

: —LUKE 23:33. 


Th HE cross of Christ, towering o’er the wrecks 
of time, dominates the other two. ‘That is 
not surprising. Reverent eyes are drawn to the 
superb figure in the midst, for love’s crowning sacri- 
fice is there, and the heart is filled with adoring 
wonder. The main purpose of the Evangelists was 
to limn that central character, so that the heartless 
might be moved, and the devout be inspired with 
deeper faith. So the significance of the other two 
has been sometimes missed. That was _ hate’s 
master-stroke, the chief indignity it could lay upon 
Jesus. The Scribes and Pharisees had done their 
utmost to goad the Master into saying or doing 
something unworthy of Himself. They had signally 
failed. They sought to make Him appear a Man of 
ridiculous pretensions, of impossible claims, and 
ludicrous presumption. Yet the robe of the aspirant 
with which Herod decked Him, the raiment of a 
king in which Pilate’s men arrayed Him, did not pro- 
duce the desired effect. The majesty of that sublime 
manhood remained undimmed. So with a touch of 


fiendishness, it was arranged that Christ should be 
163 


164 Cameos from Calvary 


crucified in company with these two notorious char- 
acters awaiting execution. 

The plans of the priests had been carefully laid. 
‘The demand for Barabbas had been born not in the 
minds of the people, but in those of the Elders. And 
the request that Jesus should be crucified hints at a 
deeply-laid plot. Certainly, it was not mere coinci- 
dence. And although Pilate, having consented to 
have Jesus put to death, seemed as though he were 
content to let them have their way, it remained with 
the rulers to waive their right to have this Man, 
who had been tried in their courts, put to death by 
stoning according to their own law. | 

Early on that eventful day, the two malefactors 
were prepared for their fate. Possibly, in the cir- 
cumstances, discipline was relaxed, and they were 
informed by their jailor that Barabbas had been re- 
leased. Yet his soul was blacker than theirs! He 
had been the prime mover in every dastardly deed 
of which they had been found guilty. It was his 
evil genius that had planned the violence for which 
they were to pay the extreme penalty. 

Dysmas turned to his fellow-prisoner. ‘‘What 
thinkest thou of that, Gestas?”’? (We use the tradi- 
tional names.) 

Gestas spat viciously on the floor of his cell. 
“That there is no justice in the world! ‘To think 
that the gods, if such there be, should favour a 
scoundrel like Barabbas! Why should he escape 
and we suffer? Reprieved! ... He turned to 
the jailor, leaning against the bars. “Who is this 
Man who takes his place?” 

“A Galilean; some simple fellow who, they say, 
hath been posing as a king. Methought as I saw 


The Two Malefactors 165 


Him before Pilate that He were unlike any king 
I have ever seen. I cannot believe that He said 
He was such. They accuse Him of deceiving the 
people! Then the people are easily deceived if 
that be so. But more like it is those pestilent 
priests; they have some spite against Him. And 
the Governor—well, he is like unto a figure of clay 
in their hands. Why, I know not. Still, it is this 
Jesus who is to be thy companion in the festive 
scene of this day. Hist! here comes the officer of 
the guard.” 

The human being is lost in the officious jailor in 
an instant. The officer and his quaternion have 
come to take charge of their prisoners. The barred 
gate is thrown open. The two wretched criminals 
are led into the courtyard, where their crosses are 
hoisted on their backs, and the guard forming about 
them, they are marched off to await the other Pris- 
oner at Calvary. ‘There are few people to notice 
them in the streets. Attention had been diverted 
elsewhere. ‘They feel aggrieved; the old spirit of 
bravado still burns in them. But they grunt out 
their curses on Barabbas as they toil up the slopes 
of the hill. ‘That fellow was ever the favourite 
of Fortune, and to think that he should thus evade 
the fate he so richly merited! 

Such was the mood of the malefactors. ‘There 
was no penitence for their wrong-doing; not even 
pity as they saw Jesus draw painfully towards them. 
Even when the cruel nails tore their way through 
the quivering flesh, and when, in horrible torture, 
they were lifted on the crosses, these two were filled 
with hate. It was hate of the jeering rabble, hate 
of that injustice which had freed the other, and 


166 Cameos from Calvary 


unreasoning hate of the Man who had taken his 
place. And this. was the end of a life of crime? 
But it had a beginning. ‘Those faces now distorted 
with suffering were once kissed by a mother’s lips. 
Those feet nailed in shameful impotence after run- 
ning the ways of bloodshed, had once been taught 
with loving care how to walk. Can we turn the 
pages of life and ready the story of their youth? 
Within reasonable limits, let the imagination circle 
about their early years. 

He on the right, designated Dysmas, may have 
had a good home. All that parental love and piety 
could do had been tried. But he grew up headstrong 
and wilful. His father’s advice was rejected as un- 
necessary; his mother’s tearful protests were re- 
garded as effeminate and only to be despised. In 
vain the rabbi had expostulated with him; he was 
careless and indifferent. Just as he had declined to 
learn his lessons in boyhood, so he refused to master 
the details of the simple craft to which he was sent. 
And when the workshop was closed for the day, 
instead of returning home, he would consort with 
some older than himself. They too were idle. De- 
pending on their parents for their daily needs, they 
drifted deeper into ways of sloth and heedlessness. 
One youth was Gestas. He had lost his father 
and mother while still young. He was a ne’er-do- 
well, so people said, and he lived up to their opinion. 
‘The two had much in common, and became fast 
friends. ‘They played stupid pranks on old folk, 
scaring them by pounding on their doors after dark, 
and perhaps driving their beasts afield. It was all 
very childish and irrational; both Dysmas and 
Gestas were agreed on that. Besides, these things 


The Two Malefactors 167 


lost their novelty after a time, and in any case, 
they brought no material gain. One evening, how- 
ever, just as night closed in, they were surprised to 
see a man, a few years their senior, walking stealth- 
ily towards them. It was Barabbas. People sus- 
pected him of more than one raid on their property, 
and he was venturesome in coming to the village. 
But evidently he had something to impart. The 
finger laid on his lips enjoined silence, and following 
an inclination of his head, they passed out to an ad- 
joining hillock. There Barabbas showed them a 
handful of gold coins, which he took from the folds 
of his robe. He filled their eager ears with tales 
that thrilled them with his daring, and the chink of 
the money moved them with cupidity. If they would 
quit the monotonous and servile life they were liv- 
ing, and join forces with him, they too might have 
everything heart could wish. The prospect was 
alluring, and the next day they were gone. 

The months which followed were filled with 
sheep-stealing and cattle-lifting, with sundry thefts, 
relieved now and then by a spice of danger. Christ’s 
allusions to the risks run by the shepherds when 
thieves came “‘to steal, and to kill, and to destroy,” 
and His story of the traveller plundered and left 
to die by the wayside, were not imaginary. ‘They 
throw a lurid light on conditions which obtained in 
those days. And such was the kind of life to which 
these men gave themselves under the intrepid leader- 
ship of Barabbas. One foul deed followed another. 
Discretion was thrown to the winds. A determined 
assault on the forces of the law took place. And 
then, after what had almost made them believe they 
led charmed lives, Fortune deserted them. ‘They 


168 Cameos from Calvary 


were trapped in their desert stronghold, and swift 
trial and sentence followed. Now they hung there 
to die, with Jesus in the midst. 

Like each other in their mode of life, they were 
also one in this: they turned on their fellow sufferer 
with bitter reproach and revilings. ‘Their resent- 
ment against Barabbas was vented on Jesus. They 
derided Him. They taunted Him. MHardened in 
sin, and made still harder by the inhumanity of the 
mob, they rivalled each other in the gibes directed 
at the Galilean. ‘They heard what the Scribes and 
Pharisees were saying to Him, and the inscription 
they had read before they were crucified now became 
intelligible. ‘Thou that destroyest the Temple and 
buildest it in three days, save Thyself. If Thou be 
the Son of God come down from the Cross.” These 
hateful ecclesiastics vie with the crowd in cruelty. 
‘“‘He saved others; let Him save Himself if He be 
the Christ.’’ And the soldiers add their word, ‘‘If 
Thou be the king of the Jews, save Thyself.” 

The mocking words reached the ear of Gestas. 
Death was still afar, and life was sweet. Could this 
Man save Himself? Then let Him show,the pity 
which the mob denied and the law forbade. He 
snatched at the hope like a drowning man at a 
straw. Here was a means of escape, a way too by 
which the reckoning with Barabbas might be settled. 
And Gestas cried, ‘If Thou be the Christ, save 
Thyself and us.”’ The malefactor could not see the 
face of his accomplice, but he waited to hear him 
repeat the request. But Dysmas was silent. He 
had heard all that had been said; but he had also 
heard that prayer of Jesus which sought forgive- 
ness for His enemies. And the malefactor’s mind 


The Two Malefactors 169 


had reverted to the past. For many a long year, he 
had not heard the voice of prayer until that hour, 
and Christ’s words of forgiveness had touched him 
to the quick. The last one whom he had heard 
speaking to the Deity was his mother. It wag just 
before he finally took to a vicious life. He had 
come home late, and was astonished to hear his 
own name. He listened at the lattice. His mother 
was praying for her headstrong son as one almost 
beyond human aid. Shame had lashed him merci- 
lessly, but instead of relenting, he had turned away 
in wrath, and had never been back to the home of 


his childhood. 


“Heaven is most just, and of our pleasant vices, 
Makes instruments to scourge us.” 


Now he could recall some of the things she had 
taught him about the Christ who was to redeem 
Israel. And the same blessed name had been ap- 
plied to this Man, who, in the greatness of His 
heart, could pray for His murderers. Who was 
He? The jailor had said He was supposed to be a 
king; some of His tormentors had used the Mes- 
sianic name. Suppose this were the Messiah? At 
least, He was superior to the mockery of the rulers, 
and His majestic calm gave hint of an unearthly 
greatness. ‘This poor malefactor was strangely sub- 
dued. He is a standing illustration of the truth 
which Paul enunciated: ‘What the law could not 
do, in that it was weak through the flesh, God send- 
ing His own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh, and 
for sin, condemned sin.’’ And like seed sown on 
inundated land, yielding little promise of harvest, 


170 Cameos from Calvary 


like that also of which Jesus spoke, the good seed 
of a mother’s teaching and prayers began to bear 
fruit after many days. 

The other was still muttering his reproaches at 
Christ’s passivity when Dysmas spoke. ‘Dost thou 
not fear God seeing thou art in the same condemna- 
tion? And we indeed justly, for we receive the due 
reward of our deeds. But this Man hath done 
nothing amiss.’”’ ‘That reveals what was passing in 
his mind. ‘They were condemned rightly, and his 
moral sense endorsed the verdict; but Jesus was in- 
nocent. They had made the air hideous with their 
invective; He had remained silent under all that 
provocation. ‘They had cursed the hands which tor- 
tured them; He had prayed for His persecutors. 
Although it had come late, yet at last, vision is 
granted to this contrite heart. 

Another penitent’s story is found in one of Ralph 
Connor’s works. Bruce, the son of a Scots minister, 
had spent his life in indifference and sin amid the 
wilds of Alberta. He is fatally shot in a drunken 
revel, and he is visited by the ‘‘Pilot.”” He looks 
into the face of this man for whom he had had no 
use, and says, “I’d like to live a little longer. I’ve 
made such a mess of it! There’s my mother, you 
know, and Jim.” Jim was his younger brother, and 
sworn chum. “Yes, I know, Bruce, but it won’t be 
very long for them, too, and it’s a good place.” 
The dying man turned his eyes gratefully on the 
other, and said with difficulty, “Yes, I believe 
it all—always did—talked rot—you'll forgive 
me that!” 

The malefactor’s remorse was just as deep, his 
repentance as sincere. Addressing Jesus in plaintive 


The Two Malefactors 171 


tones, he exclaims, ‘“‘Lord, remember me when Thou 
comest in [Thy kingdom.” And what a world of 
meaning was in that word, ‘‘Remember’’! He had 
long tried to banish it from his vocabulary. He had 
driven Memory from the portals of his heart, for 
she brought nothing but regrets as she conjured up 
scenes of childhood and innocence. What he desired 
more than anything else was oblivion. Moreover, 
to remember was the function of the law; it never 
forgot. It treasured up each item in its long account 
against the wrong-doer, waiting until the chances of 
life should carry him within reach of its inexorable 
vengeance. And this man realized, 


“Which way I fly is hell; 
Myself am hell.” 


His horrible past might demand forgetfulness, but 
his soul craved to be remembered by One so gracious 
and forgiving. That is proof of his repentance. 
And his reference to the kingdom suggests the awak- 
ening of faith. One so regal must be a King, and a 
King presupposed a kingdom; though the title above 
His head, the crowd about His feet indicated a 
kingdom not of this world. ‘Thus reasoned this 
seeking soul. Had the Divine Spirit given him again 
the light he once spurned? Dr. Parker evidently 
thought so. “The penitent thief saw the kingdom 
beyond the cross. Great man, piercing mind, auda- 
cious thinker! It isa revelation of the Holy Ghost. 
God opens strange mouths to speak His truth. Did 
not that dying thief say more in that interview with 
Christ than some of us have ever said in our lives? 


He defended Him, he hailed Him Lord, he ascribed 


172 Cameos from Calvary 


to Him a kingdom, he triumphed over death, he saw 
the crown above the cross.” 

Though it meant unutterable anguish for Christ 
to turn His head, those luminous eyes are bent on 
the face of the penitent. ‘Verily, I say unto thee, 
to-day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise.” That 
term was a familiar one. ‘The word, Paradise, 
sprang originally from the Persian, and denoted a 
pleasure-garden. Later, it came to be applied to 
the state of the blessed. The Eden which was lost 
through disobedience was to be surpassed by a glori- 
ous garden, where the souls of the righteous were 
to enjoy felicity. Josephus tells us that the Essenes 
viewed it as “situated beyond the ocean, where there 
was no uncongenial rain or cold or heat, and where 
righteous souls were perpetually refreshed by gentle 
zephyrs blowing from the sea.’ Yet others again 
regarded it as an intermediate state where the good 
awaited the final judgment. But that is beside the 
point. It is enough to say that Christ held out the 
promise to this dying man of life for evermore. 
And while it is admittedly unsound to rear a doc- 
trine on a single text, yet these words are of the 
deepest import. Christ meant precisely what He 
said. Whatever the thief’s views of Paradise, crude 
and ill-defined though they may have been, Christ 
held out the assurance that his life was to be re- 
claimed. His defiled soul was to be made fit for 
Divine fellowship. Thrust out from the society of 
men, he was yet to be made worthy of Christ’s com- 
panionship. They were to be as truly side by side 
in the eternal realm as they were then, upon those 
rude instruments of death. 

The pagan poet, with sensuous touch, says: 


The Two Malefactors 173 


“Here with a loaf of bread beneath the bough, 
A flask of wine, a book of verse—and thou 
Beside me singing in the wilderness— 

And wilderness is paradise enow.” 


But that materialistic philosophy leads to scepticism, 
for he goes on to say: 


“One moment in annihilation’s waste, 
One moment of the well of life to taste— 
The stars are setting, and the caravan 
Starts for the Dawn of Nothing—Oh, make haste.” 


Though we reject the views here advanced by 
Omar Khayyam, yet it must be conceded that he 
makes this fact plain: it is in a given companion- 
ship that Paradise can be found. Paul expressed 
himself as filled with a desire “‘to be with Christ.” 
And the promise of the Saviour’s company cheered 
the soul of the dying thief. He was to be with 
Christ! Nor was that priceless privilege to come 
only after long and dreamless slumber. ‘“To-day” 
—sémeron, as Dr. A. B. Bruce points out, means 
to-day. ‘“To-day as opposed to a boon expected at 
some future time.” 

Death is the terror of kings; it is no longer the 
king of terrors for the Christian. What Bunyan - 
saw as a river, which must be crossed before the 
pilgrim could enter the Celestial City, is only a 
stream flowing from the Gardens of God. What 
Whittier describes as ‘““A covered way which opens 
into light,” is but a momentary darkness leading 
into the glorious radiance of Paradise. If words 
have any meaning at all, if Christ can be trusted 
implicitly, we are convinced of this: Not only does 


174 Cameos from Calvary 


personality persist beyond the grave, but also the 
new life begun in Christ on earth goes on without 
intermission. Some of our hymns have wrought 
untold harm. They have disseminated crude and 
erroneous views. The soul of this malefactor was 
assured that through Christ death would be only 
a transition. ‘The body has completed its functions. 
It is a scaffolding required by the builder of char- 
acter, no longer required when life is done. It is 
an outworn garment, used by the real self, but then 
discarded. It may be wrapped with fragrant spices 
to preserve it from decay; it may be cast to the four 
winds as dust. But the soul of the Christian believer 
is with Christ. ‘The dragon-fly passes through vari- 
ous stages before it comes to its life of beauty and 
power of flight. It first lives in a pond—an unlovely 
thing born in the muddy waters. Then it reaches 
the grub-stage. Finally, it comes forth a creature of 
shimmering blue and green, with its gauzy wings 
aflame with light. 

The New Testament describes death in four fig- 
urative ways. Jesus used the idea of sleep in con- 
nection with Lazarus, and also the dead child of 
Jairus.’) She) is) not .dead, but: sleepeth: wav et it 
has often been overlooked that sleep is only a tran- 
sient thing. It is compassed by a few hours at most, 
and it certainly implies waking to renewed activity. 
Then there is Paul’s phrase, ‘“The time of my de- 
parture is at hand.’? ‘That means in the original, 
the casting off of a ship’s moorings, and the moving 
out to the open sea. Another is descriptive of 
Bedouin life: ‘“We know that if the earthly house 
of our tabernacle be taken down, we have a build- 
ing of God.’ . When the tent is struck, the soul 


The Two Malefactors 175 


treks onwards to the city which hath foundations. 
And so the picture of the traveller, at last coming 
to his destination in safety and peace. The fourth 
occurs in connection with our Lord’s transfiguration, 
when Jesus talked with Moses and Elijah concern- 
ing ‘His decease which He should accomplish at 
Jerusalem.”’ Now, decease connotes to our minds 
the end of all things, but in this passage, it means 
the beginning of things! It is ‘‘His exodus,” a word 
which, associated as it is here with Moses, is elo- 
quent of that pilgrimage from a life of limitation 
to that fair land of promise which the race has long 
desired. 

The malefactor might not comprehend all that 
Christ’s word implied. Yet there is no valid reason 
why we should not. What he did find, however, 
was that which banished dread and gloom from his 
soul, and flooded his being with light and peace. A 
writer on South America describes the initiation 
ceremony of a secret fraternity flourishing there. 
The candidate is first taken along what is called 
the Path of Death. He passes through dim cata- 
combs excavated beneath the temple of mysteries, 
and there both courage and faith are subjected to 
rigorous tests. Phantoms dash out of the dark- 
ness. Knives flash perilously near to his face. The 
air is filled with wailings and terrifying shrieks. At 
last, however, the ordeal draws to an end. The 
candidate arrives at a fissure in the rock. He sees 
the glad light of day, and is greeted with the cheers 
of those who have combined to make his initiation 
so trying. Then he is duly installed as one worthy 
to be received into the fraternity.. 

Even were death as terrifying—and it is not for 


176 Cameos from Calvary 


the believer—there is the abundant entrance into the 
everlasting Kingdom, and the gladness of the new 
life commences not in the distant future, but in the 
very hour when the heart is thrown open to the 
incoming of Christ. That dissolute character, Saul 
Kane, whom John Masefield limns in The Everlast- 
ing Mercy, is not unlike this thief on the cross. He 
has run the whole gamut of wickedness: poacher, 
drunkard, libertine. And after a night’s carousing, 
he wakes from his stupor to look at the huddled 
forms of his companions. The room is heavy with 
reeking stench, and his soul is nauseated. He goes 
forth into the rain-washed air of morning. Some- 
thing awakens within his breast. ‘The soaring lark 
chants its song of praise in the blue, cloud-flecked 
sky. The smoke is curling up from homes where 
love dwells. Then Saul Kane finds that for which 
his heart has unconsciously been yearning: repent- 
ance, and the joyous experience of God’s pardon. 
The shutters of his being are thrown back; sunlight 
enters his soul. Everything around speaks of the 
Redeemer’s patience and love. And how do the 
tumultuous emotions of his heart find expression? 


“© glory of the lighted mind! 

How dead I’d been, how dumb, how blind. 
The station brook, to my new eyes, 

Was babbling out of Paradise; 

The waters rushing from the rain, 

Were singing Christ has risen again. 

I thought all earthly creatures knelt 

From. rapture of the joy I felt.” 


Such must have been the feelings of him also to 
whom Christ brought such hope. Yet we ask 


The Two Malefactors 7 


whether such a man could be happy in Paradise, 
unless grace works an immediate change. Can char- 
acter, which requires a lifetime to shape into the 
smallest resemblance to Christ, be transmitted in a 
moment, as in this case? ‘hat is a point on which 
none may dogmatize. But this is certain: God’s for- 
giveness brings the capacity for holiness. The 
Prodigal, to whom his forfeited sonship was re- 
stored, might feel his unworthiness. Yet there was 
no doubt about the love which had restored him, 
for it gleamed in his father’s face. And so it would 
be with this pardoned soul on the cross. Life had 
been wasted, but God’s gracious work had begun in 
his heart. Whether grace operates swiftly or slowly 
is not our concern so long as the blessing be sure. 
And the goal of redeemed humanity is that it should 
be conformed to the image of God’s Son. There 
is a legend which is suggestive, if nothing more. It 
says that this poor thief came to the gates of Para- 
dise, and found an angel guarding them. He saw 
the vast spreading Gardens of God beyond them, 
but he did not dare to seek admittance. ‘The angel 
bade him draw near, but with downcast head, he 
replied, “Nay, I fear that I am unfit to enter here, 
for I have been a grievous sinner.” ‘Then how 
camest thou hither?’ he was asked. ‘Because the 
Saviour Christ promised that I should come to be 
with Him.” The gate was flung open at that word, 
and Christ Himself approached. He welcomed the 
forgiven man, and leading him to a part of the 
garden where the soil had been freshly turned, said, 
' “Look, friend!’ The man did so wonderingly, and 
Jesus went on, ‘‘No fruits of the Spirit grow here. 
It has been uncared for. Yet thy Father’s forgiving 


178 Cameos from Calvary 


love hath uprooted the weeds, and already the soil 
is prepared for the planting. Now let the work 
begin, that love, joy, peace, and all the fragrant 
fruits of grace may abound.”’ The man looked into 
the face of Christ, his eyes brimming with gratitude. 
‘Lord, if only I had begun this work below.” 

We can leave all unanswered questions to the 
boundless mercy of God, but this truth greets us 
with gladdening light. No soul is beyond His aid 
if there be but repentance. No matter how wasted 
the life, how misused the gifts, how defiled the 
raiment, His grace is all-availing. Many of us 
have felt the weight of our sins. And the heart has 
cried: 


“Could my zeal no respite know, 
Could my tears for ever flow, 
All for sin could not atone; 
‘Thou must save, and Thou alone.” 


Yet, that cannot justify the soul in abusing God’s 
tender mercies and forbearance. ‘Shall we continue 
in sin that grace may abound? God forbid!’’ One 
of the two malefactors was saved at the eleventh 
hour, but only one of the two. The other, hard and 
impenitent to the last, closed his heart to the in- 
fluences of Christ. It was due to his long ac- 
quiescence in evil. The power to repent had been 
cut off, like an atrophied limb, not by Divine fat, 
but by his own choice repeatedly exercised. In the 
Mammoth Caves of Kentucky are fish which have 
still the place for eyes, but the eyes themselves have 
been withdrawn. ‘The explanation is that their pro- 
genitors once lived in sunlit waters, but that for 
centuries the stream which these fish inhabit has 


The Two Malefactors 179 


been flowing underground, and Nature has taken 
away a faculty which is no longer required. A 
magnet allowed to lie unused, without the armature 
attached, will rapidly degenerate into an ordinary 
piece of steel. It was so with Gestas. He had 
doubtless had some opportunities. There had been 
stirrings in his soul. The voice of conscience was 
clamant now and then. Yet he steeled his heart 
against these things, and even the nearness of Christ 
failed to awaken the dead self. We dare not trifle 
with grace. In the light of His love, we must reckon 
ourselves to be dead indeed unto sin, but alive unto 
Him. ‘Thus shall we at last find entrance into the 
Paradise of God, saved by faith in Him. 


“Carry me over the long, last mile, 

Man of Nazareth, Christ for me. 

Weary I wait at Death’s dark stile, 

In the wild and the waste where the wind blows free, 

And the shadows and sorrows come out of my past, 
Look keen through my heart, 
And will not depart, 

Now that my poor world has come to its last. 


“Lord, is it long that my spirit must wait, 
Man of Nazareth, Christ for me? 
Deep is the stream, and the night is late, 
And grief blinds my soul that I cannot see. 
Speak to me out of the silences, Lord, 
That my spirit may know, 
As I forward go, 
That Thy piercéd hands are lifting me over the ford.” 


XITI 
THE CROWD ABOUT THE CROSS 


“They watched Him there.” 
—MarrT. 27:36. 


1 Marcos three victims were enclosed by a ring of 
steel, and the excitement of the people was 
at the highest pitch. ‘Those in front were pressed 
forward by the weight behind; in turn they were 
repelled by the rude strength of the guard which 
held the ground. The shouts and outcries were 
deafening. Ribald laughter blended with the bitter 
complaints of those who could not see what was go- 
ing on. ‘The actual work of the crucifixion was 
carried out with revolting expeditiousness; yet these 
men were only obeying orders. ‘They were not ina 
position to weigh the justice or otherwise of the sen- 
tence; it did not concern them. All they had to do 
was to follow their instructions. Then the main 
guard returned to the city, leaving a quaternion in 
charge under the centurion. “And sitting down they 
watched Him there.” 

If, as Alexander Pope says, ‘“The proper study of 
mankind is man,” this crowd offers abundant scope. 
The great concourse has many different types, and 
although the heart sickens at the sight of such cal- 
lousness and debased humanity, yet we would fain 


understand the people there, in order that we may 
180 


The Crowd About the Cross 181 


the better know our own hearts. ‘The soldiers them. 
selves were frankly bored by the whole proceeding, 
except as it affected them personally. One of War’s 
most terrible effects on the individual is the indif- 
ference it engenders towards all suffering. Even this 
outrage left them unmoved. ‘They are not to be 
blamed unduly; that goes without saying. They 
were victims of circumstance. Yet while we admit 
freely that they were not responsible for putting 
this innocent Man to death, our repugnance is 
scarcely diminished by that fact. They were sufh- 
ciently experienced to know what perquisites were 
due to them as executioners; the clothing of the vic- 
tims belonged to the guard. And even as we look, 
we hear them haggling about the garments and 
sandals of the three men. ‘The Fates had been un- 
fair; the difficulty of dividing the spoil can be seen. 
Three sets of garments and three pairs of sandals 
present a problem in equitable distribution when 
there are four rapacious men to be satisfied. The 
clothes were not the main ground of contention, 
however; there were means of balancing matters, 
even if some of the garments had to be torn up to do 
it. But the seamless vesture belonging to Jesus, 
and somewhat unusual because peculiar to men of 
the north, was the obstacle. To tear that was to 
ruin it. An idea presented itself to one of the men. 
They had nothing to do for some time, so they 
would gamble for it. That vesture would provide 
a stake for their game. The suggestion was hailed 
with delight, and they began to throw their dice. 
Matthew quotes the prophetic word of the Psalmist, 
“They parted My garments among them, and upon 
My vesture did they cast lots.” 


182 Cameos from Calvary 


That done, there was nothing more to occupy 
their minds except to laugh at the exasperated sec- 
tion of the crowd, or to intervene when some of the 
jesters carried their humour too far. But they were 
unable to extract much satisfaction out of that. 
There were some feeble attempts to play with the 
dice again, but beyond the few denarii they could 
muster among them, there did not seem anything 
worth the effort, and with stifled yawns, they lay 
back and watched. The wonderful calmness of 
Jesus surprised them as their attention was focussed 
on Him. They began to wonder why Pilate had let 
the Jews dictate to him as they had done. But 
after all, as one said when his opinion was asked, it 
had nothing to do with them whether Jesus were 
the King of the Jews or not. They were under 
orders, and the sooner the end came, the sooner 
would they be relieved of their tedious duties. 

The quaternion formed, as it were, an inner circle 
round the cross. But there were others. While we 
have tried to make due allowance for the soldiery, 
nothing can be said in mitigation of the rulers’ 
heartlessness. The Scribes and Pharisees, profes- 
sedly righteous and the supposed guardians of virtue, 
stood watching His sufferings. Their faces, flushed 
with success, were yet dark with hatred. ‘This ob- 
noxious Reformer had avoided their traps before. 
Indeed, skilfully laid though they had been, He had 
seemed uncannily aware of them, and had passed on 
His way unscathed. His unblemished life and 
known nobility of character presented an almost un- 
assailable position, and none felt the puerility of the 
charges laid against Him more than those who 
framed them. Still, He had ventured once too 


The Crowd About the Cross 183 


often. He had come to Jerusalem as though daring 
them to do their worst. As they viewed things, He 
had added insult to injury. Not only had He per- 
mitted the multitude to create an unseemly stir ac- 
claiming Him the Messiah, but He had also turned 
out those traders who held the priestly permit. He 
had done incalculable mischief. 

Yet—‘‘All things come to him who waits!” There 
were more ways of taking a citadel than simply 
storming it. If a frontal attack failed, might not 
the defences be penetrated by subterfuge? ‘The 
Scribes were accomplished in that art. Jesus had not 
reckoned on one of His own disciples turning traitor. 
He had possibly persuaded Himself that because 
they had been swayed by His promises, and had fol- 
lowed Him unquestioningly up and down the coun- 
try, that they were loyal to the core, and would 
stoutly defend Him to the death! Yet the glint of 
a handful of silver had done it! So now they 
baited Him. “Let the Christ, the king of Israel, 
descend now from the cross.” The term was not of 
their choosing. It maddened them to see that in- 
scription, naming this fellow the “King of the 
Jews,” and they had not only remonstrated, but had 
done their utmost to get the Governor to change it. 
He was stubborn. And they were sufficiently shrewd 
to know that, were they to press the point, pliant 
though he had been, Pilate might reverse his judg- 
ment, and refuse to hand their enemy over to them. 
So forced by circumstances, they allowed the title to 
stand. But they were subtle. If the wording could 
not be changed, its meaning might. ‘They would 
fill it with ridicule, and thus destroy any effect it 
might have on the minds of the unthinking. 


184 Cameos from Calvary 


Their efforts were stoutly supported by the Sad- 
ducees. Caiaphas was their leading representative, 
and it is tolerably certain that, notwithstanding his 
exalted office, he would be there to exult in the down- 
fall of his arch-critic. “The Sadducees were the 
materialists of that time. They denied any future 
life. That explains their anxiety to secure the death 
of this Man. Crucify Him, and He would be si- 
lenced for ever. With Jesus put out of the way of 
doing any further harm, their prestige might be re- 
stored. ‘he only one who had ever dared to shame 
their hypocrisy, and question their right to do as 
they thought best, had overstepped Himself; He had 
not measured the power they held in their hands! 
It had been difficult to persuade the Sanhedrin that 
extreme measures were warranted. ‘he Pharisees 
were trammelled by their beliefs which did not ex- 
clude the possibility of dead prophets re-appearing. 
Their argument had been that the most sensible 
course would be to arrest Him secretly, and keep 
Him without public trial in some dungeon. His dis- 
appearance might cause some comment for a time, 
but He would speedily be forgotten, and the harm 
He had wrought would terminate naturally. But 
the others prevailed. It was the only way to give 
them a spectacular triumph over their antagonist. 
And now, the butt of their jests, Jesus was lifted up 
to the ungrateful contumely of the crowd. 


“Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
Thou art not so unkind 
As man’s ingratitude. 
Thy tooth is not so keen, 
Because thou art not seen, 


Although thy breath be rude.” 


The Crowd About the Cross 185 


Those words are filled with deeper meaning as we 
look at the farther circle, swirling about the cross. 
It comprised the ordinary people, who had been 
brought together by the promise of a spectacle such 
as they had never seen before. Not that an execu- 
tion were so novel. It was the character of the Man, 
and the dramatic way in which He had been com- 
pelled to take the place of an infamous scoundrel like 
Barabbas. Jesus was well-known. Even those who 
had scarcely paused in their buying and selling were 
interested in Him. The commotion He had made 
when He entered Jerusalem, precisely as Zechariah 
had foretold the Messianic Prince would come, was 
unforgettable. They had shouted with the rest. It 
was so remarkable, and promised so much. To be 
freed from the yoke of Rome, to have no more taxes 
to pay, seemed ‘“‘A consummation devoutly to be 
wished.” But the popular outburst had been swiftly 
negatived by scurrilous reports about Him. He was 
an impostor! He had dared to lift His presumptu- 
ous hand against the Lord’s anointed. The scene 
when He had cleansed the Temple courts was exag- 
gerated into the preliminary of an attack upon the 
High Priest himself. Had it not been for the vigi- 
lance of the guards in Caiaphas’s house, this Jesus 
would have hesitated about nothing! And so the su- 
perstitious feelings of the people were played on, and 
their prejudices wakened. ‘They were inoculated 
with the virus of ecclesiastical jealousy, and so they 
‘ now joined in echoing the taunts of their rulers, 
and seeking to make the hour more bitter to be en- 
dured. There were others whose delight in Christ’s 
suffering was merely indulging a savage instinct. 
To torture the weak or helpless is one of the primi- 


186 Cameos from Calvary 


tive passions not wholly extinct to this hour. ‘These 
men viewed what was going on from another angle. 
The Victim having been provided by the ruling class, 
it was required that they should endorse the action 
of their leaders, especially as it was speciously ad- 
vanced as having been done in the interests of the 
entire community. Little did they know that, when 
they bade Jesus come down from the cross, they 
were lacerating the tenderest heart that ever 
beat. Little did they realize that love had deliber- 
ately chosen the cross as the highest expression of 
God’s regard for His children, and yet His unalter- 
able condemnation of sin. But some who smile ap- 
provingly, whose heads wag as they gloat over the 
retribution that has befallen this Man, have other 
motives for their presence. They are the merchants 
who felt the heat of His burning reproaches, and the 
sharp lash of His indignation. He had tried to take 
the bread out of their mouths! Yea, He had been 
very haughty and masterful that day, but He cut a 
sorry figure now, with His crown of thorns and 
the title over His head! And others who had wilted 
perceptibly as Jesus had denounced men who op- 
pressed the hireling, who defrauded the widow, who 
lied and cheated in their trade, rubbed their hands 
together gleefully. After all, there was some jus- 
tice inthe world. Jesus had made them miserable by 
His words; even more by His quixotic mode of life. 
Why should not a man conduct his business as he 
liked? Why should he balk at a little shrewdness 
now and then, even though it were contrary to the 
Mosaic tradition? If he made a substantial contri- 
bution to the Temple, absolution could be obtained. 
Jesus had always been inconsiderate and unpractical 


The Crowd About the Cross 187 


when it came to the actual affairs of life! There 
were Elis peculiar views about one’s duty to one’s 
neighbour, His demand for mercy and not sacrifice, 
His insistence upon the pure heart and honest mo- 
tive. And all these things were offensive to those 
who were content to have religion without an incon- 
venient conscience. 

As in every multitude, there were some people who 
had just gone with the crowd. Notwithstanding any 
better feelings, they were swayed by the passions 
of the moment, and assented to the opinion of the 
majority rather than appear singular. It has been 
well said that “One of the pests that dog civiliza- 
tion, the more so the further it advances, is the fear 
of ridicule. . . . Is there anybody living who has 
not been laughed out of what he ought to have done, 
and laughed into what he ought not to have done? 
Who has not stifled his best feelings? Who has 
not mortified his noblest desires solely to escape be- 
ing laughed at? And then, too, after having been 
laughed down ourselves, we join the pack who go 
about laughing down others.” ‘There is nothing 
easier; there is nothing more reprehensible. ‘That 
type of man is here, and alas! woman as well. They 
certainly do not call out with the enthusiasm of the 
rest. ‘hey can find something to pity in the agony 
of this Man; He bears Himself with such fortitude. 
Although they have not the moral courage to side 
with Him, or even to dissociate themselves from 
what the rest do, they question the justice of this 
act to which they are party. We need not ask why; 
some of them have been the recipients of His bounty. 
That gaunt man, standing silent and stolid near a 
noisy group, plainly bears on his face the marks of 


188 Cameos from Calvary 


long days of pain; he was brought back from the 
Valley of the Shadow by the gracious Galilean. 
That other, walking with some difficulty as he 
changes his position from one side of the crowd to 
the other, lay for years seeking alms from the passer- 
by. But Jesus gave him back to an honourable and 
useful life, although he has not yet become quite ac- 
customed to his new power of moying his limbs. 
He cannot wholly forget what he owes. There are 
some women whose children Jesus blessed, and 
though they cannot understand why, if He were so 
gracious and good, He thus is dying like a common 
malefactor, they make no protest. But it is all so 
mystifying. Many others feel the same thing. 
They had listened to Christ’s teaching; it touched 
their souls. They had seen strange miracles 
wrought; blessings innumerable had been imparted 
to the neediest. And yet—yet—they could form 
no opinion of Him. The leaders were educated 
men. They were the final authority on questions 
dealing with the Messiah, and they had condemned 
Jesus in no uncertain way. It was reported that 
they had deliberately taken Him before the Gov- 
ernor, after the case had been fairly heard in 
their own court, and the official sanction had been 
given to rid the city of a deceiver. How then 
could the ordinary mind set itself up against the 
combined wisdom of the Sanhedrin and the State? 
Why should the Man-in-the-street concern him- 
self with what was beyond him? “If He were 
not a malefactor, we would not have delivered Him 
up to thee,” the priests had said to Pilate; and the 
crowd echoed their considered judgment. 

It must be acknowledged that, from their stand- 


The Crowd About the Cross 189 


point, it was perplexing. There was so much to 
be said on both sides—and it had been said! It 
seemed incredible that one who was wicked could 
have done the kindly deeds and spoken the gracious 
words of counsel and comfort Jesus had. On the 
other hand, it seemed absurd that One who was good 
could be condemned by the High Priest, who was the 
representative of Jehovah Himself, and whose col- 
leagues openly showed their approval of this Man’s 
death. The common mind was baffled. But that 
was neither the time nor place to debate the ques- 
tion, for that moment gave promise of a new touch 
of interest to a spectacle which was becoming nau- 
seating. ‘Their attention was drawn to one of the 
two thieves. hey had both reviled Him for some 
time, but now the man on the right had completely 
changed his attitude towards Jesus. He was implor- 
ing His forgiveness, and seeking a place in His king- 
dom. While some laughed uproariously at the hu- 
mour of it, others were not so sure. They saw the 
pallor of death overspreading the bandit’s face, and 
noting the infinite compassion in the Master’s gaze, 
they felt the import of His reply. What is more, 
they discerned a new glory flood Christ’s face, as 
though this man’s penitence had given Him joy un- 
speakable. The soft radiance of conquering love 
overspread the sacred brow, touching the crown of 
thorns with light, and lifting this Man into a posi- 
tion which dominated the soul which was willing to 
see things as they were. Many a heart thrilled at 
the sight of such patient dealing with one so bitter 
of speech and black of life. Yet how pathetic that 
none had the grace to rebuke those about him, and 
to gladden the Saviour’s heart even with tardy cour- 


190 Cameos from Calvary 


age! Pathetic? Itis tragic. They must have made 
their judgment blind. There was more than enough 
evidence for them—there is more ample proof to- 
day—to reach an accurate estimate of His character 
and worth. Browning points out: 


“The acknowledgment of God in Christ 
Accepted by thy reason, solves for thee 
All questions in the earth, and out of it.” 


As we turn from the seething mass of men and 
women, sated with the spectacle of suffering, we 
see a few figures in the distance which seem famil- 
iar. They are taking the utmost pains not to be 
conspicuous, but we know them to be disciples. Self- 
preservation is Nature’s first law. ‘hey had no 
wish to repeat the experience of the past night, for 
they might yet share their Master’s fate. But some 
hidden impelling made them draw as near as they 
dared, for they were conscious of disloyalty that 
gave them no peace. Why had they not done some- 
thing for Him? The question kept re-asserting it- 
self, and no reference to Nature’s laws seemed to 
have any force when the law of love had been dis- 
regarded. What seemed worse was the memory of 
all their bickerings and self-seeking. Why had they 
grieved Him so often by their pettiness and small- 
ness of mind? God might forgive them; they could 
never forgive themselves. The bitterest drop in 
any cup ever held to human lips is to recall chances 
of showing our love, and yet to know that it is too 
late. Small services which might have brightened 
another’s life have been withheld. Kind words which 
would have meant so much have not been spoken. 


The Crowd About the Cross 191 


Then pitiless death slams the door in our faces, and 
we are shut out in the darkness, with only remorse 
for a companion. 

Perhaps that is why some of them had drawn near 
to Calvary, in spite of the danger. 


“Ts it not strange, the darkest hour 
That ever dawned on sinful earth, 
Should touch the heart with softer power 
For comfort, than an angel’s mirth? 
‘That to the cross, the mourner’s eye should turn 
Sooner than where the stars of Christmas burn?” 


One of these men is Peter. Having seen him so 
recently by the fire in the courtyard, we easily recog- 
nize him, although he keeps his face screened as 
much as possible by his flowing headdress. The 
close-set lips and contracted brows show that he is 
labouring under great emotion. In fact, were it 
possible to see a man enduring the supposed agonies 
of Purgatory, as depicted by Dante, we could imag- 
ine this to be he. Another is younger, and slight 
of form. He would have passed us unnoticed only 
we see him approaching a knot of women, one of 
whom is on the verge of collapse. The rest give 
way as he draws near. He places his arms about 
her, and while at first we thought he intended lead- 
ing her away from the scene, he surprises us by tak- 
ing her forward to the foot of the cross. 

The hours drag on. With their passing, the 
spectacle has lost its attraction for the multitude, 
and it is slowly beginning to melt away. ‘The air has 
become sultry. Distinct rumblings of thunder can be 
heard, and the weird gloom settling over the land- 
scape prompts some of the more cautious to retreat 


192 Cameos from Calvary 


citywards before the impending storm breaks. But 
we still linger, feeling the truth of Whittier’s words: 


“The solemn shadow of Thy cross 
Is better than the sun.” 


In that subdued light, we see what otherwise might 
have remained hidden. Love can triumph even in 
the face of death itself. Sin did its worst, but Love 
gave its best. What those deluded people had ~ 
missed! ‘Their judgment was superficial. ‘The ship 
most to be admired is not necessarily the one which 
has just left the builders’ hands, bright in the glory 
of her new life. She may be entrancing with her 
gleaming decks, her shining brass-work, her fresh 
paint. Yet that vessel which has just reached port, 
whose hull is scarred and chafed by the ice through 
which she has forged her way, whose decks have been 
pounded by the wrathful waves, whose sails have 
been blackened and split by the hurricane, but who 
still has safely entered the haven with her house- 
flag flying proudly at the masthead, and her ensign 
at the stern, may possess a beauty which the untried 
can never boast. It is the tempest of life which 
tests character, and reveals eternal grandeur of soul. 
And Christ is incomparably the greatest of those 
who have sailed time’s troubled seas, enduring as 
seeing Him who is invisible. “This was no mere de- 
ceiver of the people, nor even the object of priestly 
enmity. He is the Desire of all nations, and the 
Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the 
world. Sin laid the cross on Him, but Love led 
Him to the cross. And the Divine affection which 
breathed such words of unfathomable comfort to 


The Crowd About the Cross 193 


the dying penitent, which also sought John out and 
entrusted him with a mission whereby his own love 
might be expressed in daily deed, seeks our unweary- 
ing service. hus shall we prove the truth of Fred- 
erick Denison Maurice’s words, “The constraining 
love of Christ is the mightiest power in the uni- 
verse.” 


XIV 
THE OFFICER IN COMMAND 


“When the centurion which stood over 
against Him saw that He so cried out, and 
gave up the ghost, he said, Truly this Man 
was the Son of God.” 

—MARK 15: 39. 


ae centurion paced restlessly to and fro within 
the narrow limits kept by his men. He had 
been on duty since early morning, for his command 
had been detailed to carry out the execution. It 
was distasteful at best, and unbefitting the uniform 
he wore. Not that he had any objection to aid in 
ridding the world of its criminals; he had done that 
before, and would probably do it again. But there 
was something about this that filled his soul with 
loathing and revolt. As his company took charge of 
the Prisoner that morning, and marched beside Him 
in the way leading to Golgotha, he had seen that his 
task would not be easy. The Prisoner would not 
give any trouble; He was far-spent already. ‘The 
way in which He sank under the cross’s weight 
showed that. Nor would there be any organized at- 
tempt at freeing Him. On the contrary, the offi- 
cer could not see a single friendly face in the whole 
of that jostling mob. But that was where he saw 
trouble brewing. It was disgusting! NHe who had 


followed the standards of Cxesar many a league, 
194 


The Officer in Command 195 


who had fought resolutely against valiant foes, now 
rebelled against the form that duty took. 

Once the crosses were erected, there was nothing 
to do but wait, be the time long or short, until death 
should finish the work they had begun. But did that 
comprise all that duty demanded? Would that it 
did! He must perforce look on at the curious sight- 
seers, and listen to the barbed jests of a mob making 
sport of crucified men. And what was still harder 
for such a heart to endure, he must maintain disci- 
pline over himself as well as his men. ‘That in it- 
self was no easy thing. “The difficult part of good 
temper,’ says Emerson, ‘‘consists in forbearance and 
accommodation to the ill humour of others.” The 
centurion discovered that. This was not war! It 
was not for this kind of thing he had entered the 
imperial army, and taken his commission. He could 
have argued: 


“Tf it be aught towards the general good, 
Set honour in one eye and death i’ the other, 
And I will look on both indifferently, 
For let the gods so speed me as I love honour 
. More than I fear death.” 


What contribution to the common good lay in his 
service that day? Jesus was not a man of violence 
who had terrorized the community, the mention of 
whose name made faces blanch with fear. He might 
be a deceiver or be only self-deceived, but He was 
certainly unlike the other two, or even Barabbas. 
Still, the officer could not help himself; duty must 
be done. 

That did not preclude him from following his train 
of thought. The qualities which made him a soldier 


196 Cameos from Calvary 


enabled him to appreciate a Man like this. Stoic 
though the Roman was, he could not but admire the 
demeanour of Jesus as the mob moved about the 
‘cross. In similar circumstances, he had known vic- 
tims maddened by the insolent mockery of those 
who came to see them die. He remembered some 
who, after hazardous lives and having shed blood 
without compunction, whined in craven fear as death 
stared them in the face. But Jesus was vastly dif- 
ferent. Although the rabble took delight in His 
sufferings, and spat upwards at that pain-racked face, 
He had not winced. How did He comport Him- 
self? As one worthy of the title nailed over His 
head. Whether He were a king or not, a kinglier 
man this soldier had never seen. ‘The courage 
which refused the medicated wine at the outset char- 
acterized Him throughout. The officer knew what 
that meant. Some pious women of Jerusalem al- 
ways rendered this service to malefactors who were 
doomed to the cross. ‘They provided a portion of 
wine compounded with myrrh, which dulled the sen- 
sitive nerves, and so made the agony of crucifixion 
less acute. And Christ’s refusal showed a valiant 
spirit. The centurion could not know that Jesus 
had once asked, ‘“The cup which My Father hath 
given Me, shall I not drink it?” What he did know 
was that this was the act of a brave man. And 
that was only one thing. ‘The self-mastery which 
Jesus manifested in face of such infuriating insolence 
would not be lost on him. Christ had not been silent 
altogether. He had prayed for mercy on those who 
were guilty of His death. He spoke comfort to one 
of His fellow-sufferers. He had sought a home for 


The Officer rn Command 197 


His mother with one of His former associates. And 
yet never a word of rebuke for the people who 
mocked Him, nor even for the priests who urged 
them on. The priests! That was what angered this 
soldier’s soul. 

He was only a man of war himself, and had done 
many violent things in his time. He did not make 
much profession of religion, although he held his 
gods in veneration—was not the giving or withhold- 
ing of victory with them? Yet he felt piety per- 
haps ill became one who lived by the sword and 
might perish by it. ‘That did not blind him to the 
value of virtue. On the contrary, he knew that re- 
ligion ought to make a higher demand on a man than. 
even duty could. And base indeed were those who 
were disloyal to the light while professing to hold 
up the torch of truth. They were repellent to his. 
sense of the fitness of things, and those martial 
qualities to which we alluded made him wrathful 
towards men like these unworthy ecclesiastics. He 
could forgive the ignorant; they did not realize their 
cruelty, nor, lacking sensibility for the finer things, 
could they measure the pain their words gave. But 
these men of light and leading!—Well was it for 
them that he felt the restraints of discipline, or his 
sword might have leapt from its gleaming scabbard, 
and glutted itself in their base blood. ‘It is no great 
matter to associate with the good and gentle,” says 
Thomas a Kempis, “‘for this is naturally pleasing to 
all, and every one willingly enjoyeth peace, and 
loveth those best that agree with him. But to be able 
to live peaceably with hard, or perverse, or undisci- 
plined persons, is a great grace and an exceedingly 


198 Cameos from Calvary 


commendable and manly deed.” If the latter de- 
scribes the mind of this centurion, then he was un- 
doubtedly a man of fine calibre. 

‘Not yet three hours!’ ‘The day seemed inter- 
minable. He was weary of the whole thing, and 
even the crowd seemed to have lost much of its zest. 
The officer paused in his walk. His eyes turned 
questioningly to the sky. It was barely noon, but a 
strange darkness was descending on the earth. The 
thought passed through his mind that the sun, dis- 
gusted even as he was by such insensate hate, was 
hiding his face from it, or else that Nature were 
robing herself in the garments of grief. But though 
the fancy swiftly fled, the gloom remained. It be- 
came more intense, until it was difficult to distinguish 
anything clearly; and yet it was more than a dim- 
ming of midday light—it seemed something mental 
as well as physical. It was as though the heart were 
wrapped about with swirling vapours; as if the chill 
of a tomb struck to the innermost recesses of being. 
The three crosses stood silhouetted against a for- 
bidding sky. What could be the explanation? 

The centurion did not know; we do not know. 
One thing is certain. This veiling of the sun could 
not have been an eclipse. The Passover was invari- 
ably celebrated at the time of a full moon, when this 
could not have occurred, and an eclipse lasts about 
fifteen minutes in all, while this darkness lasted three 
hours. It might have been due to heavy clouds 
coming between the earth and the sun, but this again 
would be extremely unlikely in a Judzan springtide, 
and just when the sun had reached the zenith. But 
why speculate when there is always the possibility of 
the miraculous? Whatever the natural explanation, 


The Officer in Command 199 


this gloom signifies the moral anguish through which 
the Son of God was passing. Voluntarily He had 
submitted Himself to the death of the cross, and 
yet that death was only the consummation of His 
life of sacrifice in which He identified Himself with 
mankind. If God had laid on Him the iniquity of us 
all, if He were as truly the representative of the race 
as the High Priest was the representative of his na- 
tion, then His sin-bearing brought a sense of aliena- 
tion until the sacrifice was complete, and atonement 
was made. 

It was now three o’clock, and the crowd had 
thinned perceptibly. Its raucous cries no longer of- 
fended the ear. The feelings of the officer seemed 
to have communicated themselves in some way to his 
men, and the end could not now be far off. “They 
heard Christ exclaim: “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabach- 
thani—My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken 
Mer” And one of them, pity filling his rough heart, 
took the sponge-stopper from his wine-flask, and 
moistening it, raised it to the lips of the dying 
Saviour. The onlookers protested as their interest 
re-awakened. “Behold, He calleth for Elijah. Let 
us see whether Elijah will come to take Him down.” 
The dimming eyes opened again. Jesus temporarily 
revived, and with vibrant tones declared, ‘“‘It is fin- 
ished! Father, into Thy hands I commend My 
spirit.” “Che end had come! 

“Perhaps thou wilt say the good, at times, begin 
what they cannot bring to an issue, but I say 
they always accomplish it,’ wrote King Alfred. 
“Though they may not always be able to bring to 
pass the deed, yet they have the full purpose; and 
the unwavering purpose is to be accounted an act 


200 Cameos from Calvary 


performed, for it never fails of its reward here or 
in the next world.”’ Christ had, however, completed 
that which He came to do. ‘There was perfection 
which never crowns our most earnest efforts, and 
having tasted death for every man, He threw open 
the gates of life. 

Ominously the thunders roared. The earth 
seemed convulsed with mighty grief. Its frame 
shook with emotion as its Lord died, and the officer, 
looking at the scattering people now filled with 
dread, felt the ground heaving beneath his feet. 


 . « When these prodigies 
Do so conjointly meet, let not men say 
‘These are their reasons; they are natural; 
For I believe they are portentous things... . 
But men may construe things after their fashion, 
Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.” 


After all, natural law is only a convenient phrase by 
which we describe the phenomena of the universe, 
and it is significant that those who have inspected 
the rocks in the vicinity of Jerusalem declare that 
there are fissures which run transversely, and are 
quite distinct from the natural cleavages. We sim- 
ply mention that in passing. It is enough to note 
from the Gospel records that this Roman officer, 
disciplined to endure events without showing any 
emotion, was profoundly moved. What memories 
came back in that moment? Did he know what had 
happened to a brother officer on a previous occasion? 
That officer had a servant to whom he was deeply 
attached. Perhaps the man had saved his master’s 
life on some sanguinary field; at least he had proved 
his worth and the master was prepared to do any- 


The Officer in Command 201 


thing for him now that he was so grievously ill. 
Jesus had come to Capernaum where the officer was 
stationed. Dismissing any prejudice lurking in his 
mind, or any fear of criticism which might be in- 
curred, he went boldly to Christ and sought His aid. 
Our Lord responded with alacrity, and promised to 
go at once to the house. But this was more than 
the soldier had dared to anticipate. “Lord, | am 
not worthy that Thou shouldest come under my roof, 
but speak the word only, and my servant shall be 
healed.” 

If he were surprised by Christ’s magnanimity, the 
Master was equally delighted with his implicit be- 
lief. Turning to the disciples, He exclaimed, ‘“‘Ver- 
ily, I say unto you, I have not found so great faith, 
no, not in Israel.’”” He went on to speak of the time 
when the alien should find a place in the Kingdom, 
which the rightful heirs might miss through unbe- 
lief. And the servant was cured. Did the officer 
become a follower of Christ? Was the story car- 
tied to Jerusalem, as a choice morsel of gossip 
among the garrison? It is quite possible. But of 
this we are sure: what was at first unintelligible to 
this centurion now became clear. The unremitting 
hate with which Jesus had been persecuted by the 
Jews, the mock coronation by the guard, the title 
over His head, were now explicable. When to the 
majestic bearing of this Man was added His petition 
to the Supreme, whom He designated Father, the 
officer felt he had the key to the mystery. 

The darkness was slowly lifting. The sun shot 
through a jagged rent in the dull mantle of that un- 
natural sky. And as the centurion looked around, 
he saw that of the spectators, only a few women re- 


202 Cameos from Calvary 


mained as though they would keep the tryst of the 
dead. A soldier came panting up the hill. He 
brought tidings of a strange occurrence in the Tem- 
ple. ‘The heavy curtain veiling the sacred place from 
the common eye, had been torn in twain. Nor was 
it due to any human agency, he urged; those pres- 
ent declared that it was rent from the cornice down- 
wards, as though by a supernatural hand. ‘That to 
the centurion must have been baffling; to us it is sug- 
gestive of the free access to God made through 
Christ’s sacrifice. The ceremonial law, with its mys- 
tic rites and interposed barriers, was abrogated. 
The Mercy-seat and the Ark of the Covenant, with 
the broken Tables of the Law, and the pot of 
Manna, lay within the Holy of Holies. Now they 
stood revealed. Better still, they were charged with 
new meaning as these symbols were interpreted in 
the light of Christ’s redemption. Henceforth, the 
way to the Mercy-seat lay not through the sacri- 
fice offered by human hands, but through the Lamb 
Himself. The Covenant was superseded by the New 
Covenant. The broken Tables of the Law might 
stand for man’s disobedience, but there was now the 
law of Grace, whereby the positive supplanted the 
negative. And for the Manna, the Bread of Life 
was available, by which man’s soul might be fed and 
made strong. 

The centurion had, of course, neither the capacity 
nor the training to enable him to discern anything of 
this. What he did see in this rending of the veil was 
that vindication of the Sufferer’s innocence for which 
before he had looked in vain. The words leapt from 
his lips: ‘Truly, this Man was the Son of God.” 
We cannot determine the meaning of those words; it 


The Officer tn Command 203 


is impossible to say just what they connoted to his 
mind. He could not, it has been afirmed, mean 
what we do by that phrase, for he was not a believer 
in the Christian sense. He was the representative of 
a pagan power, with its deified emperor, and its 
countless deities. Yet surely such dogmatism re- 
garding what he did not mean is ill-founded. Let 
us recall what had passed. Whether the centurion 
was present at Christ’s trial or not, he would know 
what were the charges for which He was condemned 
to death. They finally resolved themselves into 
one: ‘He made Himself the Son of God.” That 
was definite enough. The Galilean had claimed ac- 
tual kinship with the God of the Hebrews. He was 
the supposed Son of Jehovah; that was how the mat- 
ter stood. Well, there were parallels in mythology. 
For example, Hercules was the reputed son of Zeus, 
as was Perseus. Yet there was this vital difference. 
Granting that the officer were familiar with such 
stories, he had actually come into personal contact 
with Jesus. And what were the reiterated cries of 
the multitude? He recalled them. “If Thou be the 
Son of God, come down from the cross.”” But the 
challenge was ignored, and the Supreme Himself 
apparently acquiesced in the fate of the supposed 
deceiver. ‘The centurion might have felt that, as 
the heavens failed to vindicate Him, His guilt was 
beyond question. Yet as He prayed to the Deity, 
the face of Jesus lit up with Divine light. Implor- 
ing pardon for those who had maltreated Him, He 
did more: He forgave them Himself. What God 
was asked to do, this Son had already done. 

The effect on the Roman mind would be tremen- 
dous. The tribute of another distinguished soldier 


204 Cameos from Calvary 


—Sir Francis Younghusband—is not inapplicable to 
Jesus Christ. “Freedom, courage, and all the virtues, 
are necessary and vitally necessary to the one great 
end of love. In love, the individuality is not lost. 
Rather is it expressed to its utmost capacity of ex- 
pression. A man is more himself in the highest mo- 
ments of love than at any other time, and the very 
depths of his being then come up.”’ Our Lord had 
revealed the tenderness of His heart towards those 
around Him; He showed the triumph of trust as He 
turned to God. Such confidence was impossible to 
one who was an impostor, and that endearing name, 
Father, had given birth to comfort inexpressible. 
Robert Louis Stevenson relates that when a child, 
he accidentally locked himself in a dark cupboard. 
Try as he would, he could not turn the key again, 
and the place became filled with horrible fears. He 
cried out interror. His father heard him, and while 
the locksmith was sent for, he stood outside the door, 
talking to the boy reassuringly. Stevenson says his 
dread went like magic. He even enjoyed the re- 
maining time which elapsed before his prison-door 
was opened. His father was at hand. 

The appeal to the Infinite on the part of Jesus, and 
the portents marking His passing, were consistent 
with the claims which had been attributed to Him. 


“When beggars die, there are no comets seen; 
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.” 


This centurion was a man of intelligence. He had 
been posted in Jerusalem for some time, and may 
have been more familiar with the idea of a Messi- 
anic King than is usually admitted. But it is suffi- 


The Officer in Command Oy 


cient to say that he felt impelled to pay his tribute 
to One whose qualities of soul he had witnessed with 
admiration. The cumulative effect of the day was 
that this was no ordinary man, and the highest en- 
comium that could be framed was not too great for 
Him. When, therefore, the centurion described 
Jesus as the Son of God, the expression is note- 
worthy; it comes from a mind that was unbiassed in 
Christ’s favour, and whatever it connoted, it was 
meant to be the greatest honour which could be con- 
ferred. Nor does the officer of the guard stand 
alone in his regard. 

Since that day, others have turned their eyes to 
that Divine Sacrifice. They have studied the records 
of His life; they have sought to understand the in- 
tense passion for man’s welfare that flamed in His 
soul. Nor have they all approached Calvary by the 
paths leading from the Temple of orthodoxy. On 
the contrary, they have come from different points 
of the intellectual compass. Just as the paths of 
Simon of Cyrene, coming in from the country, and 
the centurion, coming out from the city, converged 
towards the cross and met in Christ, so have the 
opinions of others coincided with that expressed in 
such memorable circumstances. ‘That fact is too 
important to be dismissed without due consideration. 
Strauss, though a doughty opponent of accepted 
views of the Gospels and their authenticity, yet 
reverently bows the knee before Jesus, “in whom 
the Divine wisdom first developed itself, as a power 
determining His whole life and being.” While 
Renan, from his distinctive point of view, affirms 
that “Whatever may be the unlooked-for phenomena 
of the future, Jesus will not be surpassed.” 


206 Cameos from Calvary 


The testimony obtained from an entirely different 
source is strikingly similar, for Lecky, writing as a 
historian, and with an altogether refreshing can- 
dour, pays a tribute to the worth of Christ’s work. 
It is as emphatic as that of the centurion: “If Chris- 
tianity was remarkable for its appeals to the selfish 
or interested side of our nature, it was far more re- 
markable for the empire it attained over disinterested 
enthusiasm. The Platonist exhorted men to imitate 
God; the Stoic, to follow reason; the Christian, to 
love Christ. he later Stoics had often united their 
notions of excellence in an ideal Sage, and Epictetus 
had even urged his disciples to set before them some 
man of surpassing excellence, and to imagine him 
continually near them; but the utmost the Stoic ideal 
could become was a model for imitation, and the ad- 
miration it inspired could never deepen into affection. 
It was reserved for Christianity to present to the 
world an ideal character, which through all the 
changes of eighteen centuries has inspired the hearts 
of men with an impassioned love; has shown itself 
capable of acting on all ages, nations, temperaments, 
and conditions; has been not only the highest pat- 
tern of virtue, but the strongest incentive to its prac- 
tice; and has exercised so deep an influence that it 
may be truly said that the simple record of three 
short years of active life has done more to regener- 
ate and to soften mankind than all the disquisitions 
of philosophers, and all the exhortations of moral- 
ists.” 

Let it be acknowledged that it is rather the power 
of the living Christ, and not the simple record of His 
life, which has made such an impact on the world, 
and we agree with Lecky’s statement of the influence 


The Officer in Command oO} 


which Jesus has wielded. But we must make allow- 
ance for the view-point, remembering the tolerant 
words of Ruskin: ‘‘Truth reveals itself in proportion 
to our patience and knowledge, discovers itself kindly 
to our pleading, and leads us, as it is discovered, 
into deeper truths.””’ God has His own ways of 
reaching the soul. He finds men sometimes on trails 
of their own blazing, and leads them on to knowl- 
edge of Himself. Sometimes the truth breaks slowly 
on the mind after long meditation, as day creeps 
with measured pace behind the trailing garments 
of night. It was so in the case of that imposing fig- 
ure, Sadhu Sundar Singh. He belonged to an exclu- 
sive family in India, and had been carefully nurtured 
in the tenets of his father’s faith. They were, how- 
ever, not wholly satisfactory to him as he found time 
to reflect. A copy of the New Testament fell into 
his hands. He scanned its pages cursorily, and then, 
realizing that it was a forbidden book for one of 
his caste, he threw it aside. But the words he had 
read were burned into his mind. He seemed to see 
them glowing in letters of fire in the blackness of the 
night. A voice impelled him to read again until he 
ascertained the truth or falsity of what this book 
contained. He therefore obtained another copy and, 
locking himself in his room, began to read. All 
sense of time passed. He read far into the night. 
Then with the dawn, light came into his soul. He 
had, as another before him, “found Him of whom 
Moses in the Law, and the prophets, did write.” 
When he signified his intention of becoming a Chris- 
tian, his family was furious. Attempts were made 
on his life. He was finally cast out as a pariah. 
Since then, traversing India from one end to the 


208 Cameos from Calvary 


other, he has spent his life declaring the unsearchable 
riches of Christ, the Son of God. 

Like a flash of lightning the revelation came to 
Augustine as he heard the Epistle read in Milan 
Cathedral; to Luther, as he climbed Pilate’s Stair- 
case on his knees, in expiation of his sins; to Bunyan 
as he passed those pious women speaking of the 
grace abounding. But to the centurion, the way was 
that of personal contact with Christ Himself. The 
Golden Legend has this strange passage concerning 
him. His traditional name was Longinus, and the 
story says: ‘“When he saw the miracles, how the sun 
lost its light, and great the quaking of the earth 
when our Lord sufiered death and passion in the tree 
of the cross, then believed he in Jesus Christ. Some 
say that when he smote our Lord with the spear in 
the side, the precious blood descended by the shaft 
of the spear upon his hands, and of adventure, with 
his hands he touched his eyes, and anon, he that had 
been to fore blind saw clearly. Wherefore he re- 
fused all chivalry, and abode with the Apostles, of 
whom he was taught and christened; and after, he 
abandoned to lead an holy life in doing alms and 
keeping the life of a monk, about eighteen years in 
Cesarea and Cappadocia. And by his words and his 
example, many men converted he to the faith of 
Christ.” 

How much of this is historical and how much 
pure legend it is impossible to say. But when men 
are brought into touch with Christ by personal ex- 
amination of His teachings and through His Spirit, 
there is little fear of the result. He is His own 
apologetic. The effects of His work are immeasur- 
able, but they can be seen. He has shaped the in- 


The Officer tn Command 209 


dividual soul, moulded the policies of nations, di- 
rected the destinies of the race. And doing what no 
other has done in the same way—revealing, hearten- 
ing, and redeeming—He cannot be more aptly de- 
scribed than in the words of this officer of the 
guard, “Truly, this Man was the Son of God.” 


XV 
MARY AND HER FRIENDS 


“There stood by the cross of Jesus, His 

mother and His mother’s sister, Mary the 

wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene.” 
—JOHN 19:25. 


Meta thy name is woman! Nothing is 

more astonishing, in view of all the facts, than 
the devotion of these women to the crucified Naza- 
rene. They were powerless in face of that howling 
mob. ‘They could expect neither mercy for their loved 
One, nor consideration for themselves. Yet they 
must perforce remain to the end. Even when the 
lamp of being at last flickered out, the flame of their 
loyalty still burned brightly and, lingering, cast a 
beam of light athwart the black canopy of night. 
Though these women differ from one another, they 
have this in common: a feeling of gratitude and love 
which nothing can diminish. Of the four, one is 
overwhelmed with grief. The others minister to her 
as best they can. But the bowed head, the form 
quivering with grief, the tearful glances shot now 
and then in the direction of the cross, rivet our at- 
tention. We need not ask who she is; it must be His 
mother. Poor Mary! what poignant memories and 
bitter thoughts are hers in that fearful hour. Al- 


though we cannot give her the exalted place which 
210 


Mary and Her Friends aye 


the Roman Church has assigned to her, we may not 
withhold our reverent love and sympathy in such an 
experience. 

She had toiled up the steep ascent leading to Gol- 
gotha, with tumult in her soul. Her friends en- 
deavoured to dissuade her from her project, but her 
heart would brook no denial. She did not know 
what she intended to do; she dared not think. Her 
first impulse was to flee from the scene, and fling 
herself into one of the gorges where the rock’s 
jagged fangs awaited such victims of despair. But 
the next moment she was impelled to rush wildly into 
the midst of the crowd, to denounce their fiendish- 
ness, and if need be, die with the Son of her bosom. 
It needed all the resource of her companions to re- 
strain her hysterical grief. ‘The reaction left her 
nerveless and trembling. A desolating sense of help- 
lessness swept over her. Sorrow stalked into her 
soul, and bade Memory follow with her bitter-sweet 
fruits. 

That unforgettable day of the Annunciation, the 
exaltation of spirit which was afterwards followed 
by inevitable misunderstandings, came back to her, 
bathed in the pure light of God’s gracious dealings. 
Bethlehem with its inhuman indifference, and its al- 
most superhuman tenderness as some came seeking 
the new-born King, gave place to Herod’s horrible 
malice. She recalled the escape to Egypt, hearing 
the wailing of women like herself as she and Joseph 
journeyed through the night. And while she pressed 
the warm body of her Child to her breast, she knew 
they would be raining kisses on little faces that would 
never answer their smiles again. Agony such as 
theirs was now repeated in her experience. Yea, the 


21D Cameos from Calvary 


words of the aged Simeon came back. With glow- 
ing face, he had blessed God for the coming of that 
Child. Had he stopped with that, how her soul 
would have rejoiced. But there followed those cryp- 
tic words, “‘This Child is set for the fall and rising 
again of many in Israel, and for a sign which shall be 
spoken against. Yea, a sword shall pierce through 
thy own soul also.” 

Many a time subsequently had she pondered that 
prophecy. Although the wants of her little house- 
hold kept her fully occupied, she found her mind 
dwelling on that suggestion of coming sorrow. 
Then with the vividness of a thunder-bolt, the mean- 
ing came. She was teaching Jesus to walk. Stand- 
ing at one end of the room, she bade Him come to 
her, and He stretched out His tiny arms in childish 
glee as He responded. The morning sunlight shone 
through the window behind Him, thus throwing His 
shadow on the floor. The figure of a cross lay 
between them! It was her first glimpse of the im- 
palpable yet menacing shadow cast by the future. 
As only a mother could, she drove this thought from 
her heart. And yet she knew that, although she 
shut the door fast upon it, it lurked without only 
waiting for a chance to enter again. 

The years sped past. The visit to the Temple 
when Jesus was about twelve was one of the out- 
standing events of those even-flowing days. Yet 
again, His ‘“Wist ye not that I must be about My 
Father’s business ?” filled her soul with wonderment. 
Then when He took His place with Joseph in the 
workshop, again the shadow! Mary had gone to 
call her Son to the evening meal. He had been toil- 
ing without respite through the day. At the sound 


Mary and Her Friends id We 


of her voice, He laid down His tools, and greeted 
her with a welcoming smile. He raised His arms 
above His head, straightening His back with a sigh 
of fatigue. And at that instant, the setting sun 
shining through the open door, threw His shadow on 
the wall of the workshop. Once more it was the 
figure of the crucified. 

Now Mary wrapped her face in her mantle at the 
recollection. But as though she were not already 
suffering enough, she thought of how she had failed 
Him. Notwithstanding all His love, His unweary- 
ing labour for the family bereft of its bread-winner, 
she had not understood Him. There was that day 
when she listened to her neighbours rather than to 
her own heart. Jesus had created a sensation. To 
assume the role of the prophet was serious enough, 
but to apply to Himself those words which were 
rightly regarded as befitting only the Messiah 
seemed profane. And to the consternation of the 
little synagogue in Nazareth, Jesus had quite defi- 
nitely said, ‘“This day is this Scripture fulfilled in 
your ears.” They cast Him out. But the echoes of 
the storm penetrated the home. Mary’s other 
children joined the critics. They demanded that 
something should be done, if not for the sake of the 
family, then for the sake of Jesus Himself. They 
had reached a conclusion which the facts seemed to 
warrant: He was not responsible for His actions! 
“He is beside Himself.” ‘They found Him preach- 
ing at a certain house, with a great crowd round 
Him, and resorting to a ruse to get Him quietly 
into their power, they sent a message in to Him: 
His mother and His brethren desired to speak with 
Him. His mother? That would be indeed a bitter 


214 Cameos from Calvary 


blow. Jesus could make allowance for the others, 
but He had always counted on her sympathy. Mis- 
understood! And only now did Mary grasp what 
it must have meant to Him. She had missed the 
significance of His life, yea, just as shamefully as 
the rabble around that cross. Her responsibility 
was even greater than theirs. Perhaps nothing more 
could be expected of them, but she—how could she 
have been so blind! 

Her mind was made up. She no longer wished 
to avoid those searching eyes. She would go right 
to the cross, cost what it might; she would declare 
openly to the world, if it cared aught for her confes- 
sion, that she not only loved, but also believed in, 
that Divine Son of God. But again her friends tried 
to hold her back. A movement of Salome’s head 
brought help from another quarter. Somewhere 
from the edge of the multitude, a man approached. 
It was John, Salome’s son and Christ’s most inti- 
mate friend. He put his arms about this woman 
with the pallid, pain-lined face, and learning from 
his mother what Mary wished to do, he joined in try- 
ing to change her mind. Such a course would ac- 
complish nothing. When the people whose taste for 
blood had been whetted saw their Victim’s mother 
there, it would rouse their fury anew. Would they 
show her any pity? Even though they might not 
offer any violence to her, they would add their 
malicious jests to the agony she was already endur- 
ing. Such protests were useless! John knew it al- 
most before he had finished speaking. Mary was 
determined. She did not wish to involve them, but 
go she would! So they went with her. John’s 
heart misgave him for his own instability, and now 


Mary and Her Friends 215 


if this meant suffering or even death, it was only 
what he merited. But when at last they made their 
way through the jostling throng, and reached the 
foot of the cross, they felt they had waited too long. 
The eyes were closed. Mary looked up at that 
dear face which she had held to her breast, and which 
she had kissed so tenderly. The blood from the 
thorn-prints had trickled down, and congealed, ac- 
centuating the pallor of Christ’s countenance. And 
now He would never know how deep the love of 
His mother’s heart, nor receive her confession of 
penitence. Old Simeon was right; the sword pierced 
her soul. In spite of her resolve to retain her self- 
control, she could no longer contain herself, and 
she gave way to passionate laments. It were good 
that it was so. 

“«’. « Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak 
Whispers the o’erfraught heart, and bids it break.” 


The plea of the contrite is wrung from her lips, 
but she would never hear the consoling word of His 
forgiveness ! 

The sound of a well-loved voice reached the Sav- 
iour’s heart. Perhaps there were even more subtle 
influences which told Him that His mother was 
present to share the last moments of His sufferings. 
He opened His eyes. They stood—Mary and her 
friends—wishing they could stifle the beating of their 
hearts lest He should speak, and His voice be too 
faint for them to hear. He smiled to see them. It 
was not only the sight of His mother’s devotion 
which sent a ray of joy through His heart, but also 
the fact that His disciple had conquered his fears 


216 Cameos from Calvary 


enough to show pity to that stricken mother. And 
Jesus said, “‘Woman, behold thy son... . Son, 
behold thy mother!’ ‘They understood. Mary 
knew that Christ’s heart had lost none of its ten- 
derness for her, and that He had already divined 
the love which had brought her now to His feet. 
He seemed to know that she was there through 
the high impulse of motherhood, and the higher 
promptings of the Divine. But why this thought for 
her future? Because Mary would yet have to pay 
for this outburst of love. His brethren would not 
readily forgive her open acknowledgment of One 
on whom rested the stigma of the cross. She would 
need a home; she would sorely lack love and sym- 
pathy. While John himself, when he realized his 
own sad declension, would need some heart on which 
to lavish the love of his impassioned soul. In each 
other’s plight, they might find mutual consolation 
and peace. 

Our hearts go out to this poor mother. Yet if 
we allow our own dear ones to pass on life’s way, 
growing ever more solitary because we fail to un- 
derstand and sympathize, if we withhold the cheer 
and encouragement that we can give, then such 
thought for Mary were in vain. It were as waters 
running to waste, serving no useful purpose, bring- 
ing not fertility, but only a marsh, dank and depress- 
ing. But there is a sequel to this poignant story. 
We may with Mary: 


“Trace the rainbow through the rain, 
And feel the promise is not vain 
That morn shall tearless be.” 


Mary and Her Friends 217 


The scene changes to the Upper Room. ‘The res- 
urrection has thrown its hopeful light into the 
hearts of the sorrowful. ‘The Apostles are there 
with their fellow-believers. And among them is 
Mary—yea, “Mary, the mother of Jesus, with His 
brethren.” (Acts 1:14). ‘Those same brethren 
who failed to understand Jesus in the home and 
through His ministry, have been won over by a 
mother’s faith and prayers. James, as we know, 
afterwards filled a position of eminence in the 
Church. And if Monica led her son from a life of 
careless revelry, and gave Augustine to the cause of 
Christ, is it incredible that Mary also succeeded? 
Most sons who achieve greatness and fame do so 
because of their mothers; Mary’s claim to regard 
and reverence is due to her Son, and we gladly re- 
member the love and devotion she showed to Him. 

Salome, the wife of Zebedee, was also at the 
cross. She is generally assumed to be Mary’s sister. 
If they were sisters, that would make her two sons, 
James and John, first cousins of Jesus. And that in 
turn throws some light on the incident with which 
her name is usually associated. She made an ambi- 
tious request on behalf of her sons. It was that 
they might sit on either side of Christ’s throne when 
He came to His kingdom. If Salome were thus re- 
lated to Jesus, her request becomes not only reason- 
able, but also natural. What could seem fairer to 
a doting mother than that her sons, who had be- 
lieved in Jesus when His own brethren did not, and 
who had left everything for His sake, should be re- 
paid for their trust? But from Christ’s standpoint, 
we can see that it was impossible. Even were He 


218 Cameos from Calvary 


disposed to grant such a request, He could not do so 
merely for family reasons. His decision brought 
disappointment to those concerned, but that was a 
blessing in disguise. When the mists clear, reality 
can be better discerned. ‘The scorn with which the 
rest of the Apostles regarded the petition, no less 
than the plain disapproval of the Master, led both 
James and John to a deeper apprehension of 
spiritual things. That searching word Christ spoke 
about the cup of suffering challenged their man- 
hood. Valiantly they declared their willingness to 
share whatever the future held, and doubtless there 
was more than empty vaunt in their hearts. Yet as 
they afterwards looked at their ambitious desire, it 
seemed the height of presumption; it savoured of 
intrigue. They could live down the unfortunate 
incident only by showing resolute loyalty and 
obedience. 

The effects of that day were long felt. Salome 
also began to see things differently. And although 
her dearest wish for her sons was denied, with 
deepened sympathy, she entered into Christ’s work. 
She became one of His supporters. ‘Then at the 
last, she shared the vigil of Mary, His mother. 
There were many things she could not fathom. 
Christ’s reference to His Father, and to the King- 
dom, were inexplicable, considering that she was 
intimate with His home circle. Still, faith had 
begun, and she saw glimpses of spiritual altitudes 
which though inaccessible, were nevertheless real. 
She had never doubted Christ’s sincerity, and she 
had no patience with His brethren who tried to cast 
a doubt even on His sanity. Had they done as much 
for their mother as Jesus had, they might have some 


Ta, ee 


Mary and Her Friends 219 


ground for being critical. As it was, she viewed 
her Kinsman in as detached a way as possible, and 
her opinion changed with the passing of time. She 
had agreed with the rest when Jesus left the work- 
shop, and when she saw the business which Joseph 
had toiled to build up pass into the hands of 
strangers. She had blamed Jesus for this sudden 
desire for publicity, and had wondered how Mary 
was to live. Yet she could not forget some things 
learned from Mary’s lips long ago. Mary had since 
hidden them in her heart, and declined to discuss 
them. But Salome had talked of them with 
Zebedee. Then when their two sons decided to 
devote their lives to this new mission, her concern 
was even greater. Rumours of strange happenings 
swept the quiet countryside like a forest fire. What 
did this talk of the Kingdom mean? 

Salome’s convictions slowly took shape in spite 
of the rebuff her hopes had received. She too had 
felt the power of that wondrous life, and though 
she could not reconcile the public ministry and the 
Messianic claims with the humble home and quiet 
upbringing, yet she felt, rather than understood, 
there were facts which her philosophy could not 
encircle. And this was the end of it all? She had 
no love for Annas and Caiaphas, nor for their 
fellow-conspirators. Had faith in God depended 
solely on such a flimsy foundation, it would have 
gone ill with her. But in any case, no matter what 
were the rights or wrongs of the situation at that 
juncture, Mary had need of support and sympathy, 
and so Salome was there. Her function was not 
only to minister to the living, but also to bring her 
spices for the embalming of the dead, and in both 


220 Cameos from Calvary 


was she blest. Happy is the heart-that, despite its 
disappointments, even its apparently unanswered 
prayers, can retain its affection for Christ, without 
diminution. Salome, were she remembered only 
for her petition on behalf of her sons, would not 
merit a large place in our regard. As it is, faith 
which passes beyond the limits of sight, love that 
continues its gracious ministrations when life has 
fled, calls for admiration and praise. And if we 
can rejoice the heart of the Saviour, as did Salome, 
forgetting our own needs in that of others, and 
bringing comfort to aching souls, life shall not have 
been in vain. 

The third woman in that group was Mary, the 
wife of Clopas. She is one of those fine women 
whose lives are their only memorial. But though the 
record of their deeds may pass, the fragrance lingers 
through the years. A distinguished preacher of our 
acquaintance was a periodical visitor at a certain 
house, and he asked his host on one occasion how 
it was there was always the perfume of roses in the 
room where they sat. The gentleman went to a 
cabinet, from which he took a portion of cotton- 
wool, in which were embedded several fragments 
of glass. ‘“This is the reason,” he said. Then he 
explained that a vial of Attar of Roses had been 
sent from abroad, but afterwards it had been acci- 
dentally broken. The precious fluid was gathered 
up with that wad of wool, and the pieces of glass 
also kept, and although it had happened some years 
before, the scent of roses remained. It was thus 
with Mary of Clopas. We know very little about 
her, but she was one of those fine women who as- 
sisted Jesus with their substance during His itinerant 


Mary and Her Friends 221 


preaching. She was also sufficiently intimate with 
Mary the mother to share that trying vigil with 
her. 

We need not attempt to pierce the veil which 
shrouds her identity. The narratives are not very 
explicit. Yet from Mark’s Gospel we gather this 
interesting fact: She gave two sons to Christ’s 
service. James the Less was one of the Twelve, 
and although, like his mother, his unobtrusive gifts 
receive no meed of praise, the place Jesus gave him 
in the Apostolic company testifies to his worth. Her 
other son, Joses, was also known to the Church. 
And their mother who had done what she could 
during Christ’s life, proves how warm her attach- 
ment to Him, for she was there when the stricken 
body was laid in the sepulchre. She and Mary 
Magdalene remained even after the stone had been 
rolled across the aperture of the tomb. And the 
last to leave, they were also first to arrive the third 
morning that they might render the final service to 
One so beloved. 

That is indicative of Mary of Clopas’s love for 
Christ, and such love is a sublime dynamic. It may 
not move in conventional ways. The chances are 
that it will not. Yet it moves, and its course is 
ever beneficent. What lighted such a flame of death- 
less affection in this woman’s heart? We need not 
speculate. The answer is found in her designation, 
“Mary ... the mother of James and _ Joses.”’ 
What Christ had done for them made her do this 
for Him. ‘‘He who places his hand on a child’s 
head,” says a famous old Scots divine, “places his 
hand on a mother’s heart.’’ Christ demonstrates 
the truth of it. He laid hold of these two sons in a 


222 Cameos from Calvary 


vital way, and life could never be the same either 
for them or their mother. It is not difficult to read 
between the lines. Only a mother knows with what 
grave concern the opening years of manhood can 
fill a mother’s heart. James and John were no ex- 
ceptions. Perhaps they had given some cause for 
disquietude in that home. ‘The father had been 
severe, even indignant. It had no effect. They re- 
garded him as narrow, knowing nothing about the 
world with its changing ideas and customs, and 
therefore he could not be expected to make any 
allowance. The mother joined her pleas to his 
rebukes; it had been just as futile. She could not 
possibly know the allurements of the city, nor its 
fascination for the young. So-months passed into 
years. he sons were not exactly vicious; they were 
careless and indifferent. The God of their parents 
did not make any appeal to them! It was possibly 
the fault of religion. Those who posed as the chief 
exponents of it had long ago fallen beneath their 
contempt. And meanwhile, James and Joses de- 
teriorated. If they no longer cared what their 
parents felt, they were still a matter of serious con- 
cern to them, and home was sadly shadowed. 

Then a change came over them. No one knew 
what had happened. None dared to enquire. Their 
resentment under previous inquisitions restrained 
both the father and mother. But a new spirit was 
evident. From indifference, they passed to a con- 
siderateness which was phenomenal. From moving 
in selfish ways, life found a new orbit. And when 
James intimated that he had decided to leave the 
daily craft to become an associate of the Galilean 
Teacher, the secret was out. 


Mary and Her Friends 223 
“. . We are in God’s hand, 


How strange now looks the life He makes us lead: 
So free we seem, so fettered fast are we! 
I feel He laid the fetter: let it lie!” 


Joses shamefacedly admitted that he too was a fol- 
lower of Christ. He had not been summoned to the 
Apostolate. That did not alter the regard he felt 
for this gracious Master. And from that hour, 
home was a new place for Clopas and his wife. 
Instead of continual friction due to his attempts to 
assert his authority, there was harmony. Instead 
of tumult as the sons resisted, there was peace. 
Christ had done that for that home. Was it too 
much then to show their gratitude to Him in any 
way possible? 

‘Anything we can do for Jesus or for His work,” 
remarked Clopas, ‘‘let us do it. If I were a younger 
man, I would be away myself on such a task as James 
has chosen. Perhaps there is some way we could 
show our gratitude for what Jesus has done for our 
sons. What thinkest thou?” 

And Mary had shown what she thought by send- 
ing supplies occasionally, and even going herself, 
ostensibly to see her son, but also to have the op- 
portunity of knowing Christ better. Every effect 
must have an adequate cause, is the dictum of 
Science. That being so, we can gauge the Master’s 
power by the unquenchable love He roused in this 
mother’s heart. And that also explains her tireless 
vigil at the cross and at the sepulchre. ‘‘’Tis a 
great and mysterious gift, this clinging of the heart,” 
says George Eliot in Felix Holt, “‘whereby it hath 
often seemed to me that, even in the very moment 


224 Cameos from Calvary 


of suffering, souls have the keenest foretaste of 
heaven. I speak not lightly, but as one who has 
endured. And ’tis a strange truth that only in the 
agony of parting we look into the depths of love.”’ 

Nor was Mary of Clopas alone in such regard as 
we see from her companion, Mary Magdalene. If 
the former had cause for gratitude the latter had 
a thousand times more. Probably it is she whom we 
first meet in the house of Simon, the Pharisee. The 
lordly leader had, either from a wish to study the 
Nazarene at first hand, or from some reason he 
could scarcely define, invited Jesus to the evening 
meal. ‘The Master would not be unduly elated by 
such a request. Had He been so, He would have 
soon been brought low. He was a guest, but it 
was evident that He was not ranked any higher 
than the social plane of His rough followers. He 
was being patronized. The usual courtesies were 
lacking. Jesus felt before long that He was there 
on sufferance, and though denied the niceties of east- 
ern etiquette, their absence would not be likely to be 
noted by such as He! Yet Jesus did not show any 
resentment. ‘The meal proceeded smoothly, and if 
Simon had any ulterior motive in inviting the 
Teacher, none could have suspected it. In spite of 
himself, he felt the influence of this exalted Man. 
Jesus seemed to invest everything with new glory, 
and Simon’s heart, long dulled into insensibility, felt 
a strange glow as they conversed. ‘The guest was 
well-informed on any subject broached. His genial 
smile, His ready wit, His striking personality, 
tended to make any subtle scheme which the Pharisee 
might have had in mind seem impracticable. 

An unexpected interruption took place. In ac- 





Mary and Her Friends 225 


cordance with the customs of the time, the banquets 
ing-chamber was open to the courtyard, through 
which any might pass. And as they were talking, 
Simon caught a glimpse of a woman who had en- 
tered. Even though he were unable to recognize 
the type, her unbraided hair—the badge of her 
class—would have given him the clue. She had 
stolen in, but Jesus engrossed in conversation, had 
evidently not noticed her. This gave Simon an op- 
portunity. He did not wish to make a scene; he 
knew the Nazarene was somewhat unconventional, 
and He might take the woman’s part. But if he 
could signal one of the servants, and have her 
quietly removed, no harm would be done. But the 
woman had some object in her coming. Wiping 
Christ’s unsandalled feet on which her tears had 
fallen, she anointed them with the costly spikenard 
she carried. And Simon’s soul flamed with anger. 
Now he knew! He had always cherished doubts 
about Jesus and “this Man, if He were a prophet, 
would have known who, and what manner of woman 
this is.” 

Christ read the hearts of both the sanctimonious 
and the sinful. He did not pay any immediate at- 
tention to the woman, but relating to Simon the story 
of the two creditors, He secured the answer that he 
who had been forgiven most would love most. That 
was just what the Master wanted, and He applied 
the unexpected rebuke. It was tremendous! ‘‘Seest 
thou this woman? I entered into thine house, thou 
gavest Me no water for My feet: but she hath 
washed My feet with tears, and wiped them with 
the hairs of her head. Thou gavest Me no kiss: 
but this woman, since the time I came in, hath not 


226 Cameos from Calvary 


ceased to kiss My feet. . . . Wherefore I say unto 
thee, her sins which are many are forgiven; for she 
loved much!” 

Was this Mary Magdalene? ‘The weight of evi- 
dence seems to point to that fact. She was from 
Magdala, a city which was both wealthy and 
morally corrupt. She is mentioned as one out of 
whom Christ cast seven devils—that being synony- 
mous with complete abandonment to evil. We can 
then understand her inexpressible gratitude to such 
a deliverer. He had lifted her from the miry clay, 
and set her feet on a rock. How could she repay 
Him? Others had looked on her with leering eyes, 
or with that scorn which was harder to endure. But 
Her—He had seen not only a woman who was a 
sinner, but also a sinner who was a woman. All 
that remained in her of womanliness sprang into 
life at His word. He did not condone her sin; He 
forgave it. He set her free from the noisome de- 
filement of her past. Well has Hartley Coleridge 
put it: 


“She stooped, and with her untressed hair 
Still wiped the feet she was so blest to touch; 
And Christ wiped off the soiling of despair 
From her fair soul, because she loved so much.” 


Through subsequent days, Mary Magdalene lost 
no chance of listening to that gracious voice, of see- 
ing others as despairing as she had been, brought 
back to life and given hope for the new pathway. 
She noted too, and it was just as wonderful to her 
eyes, that dormant seeds of goodness and purity 
were springing up to glorious life. What a Saviour 


Mary and Her Friends Dial, 


she had found! And that was why she of all women 
braved the contempt which the rulers might display, 
or the insults the crowd might fling at her, as she 
came to His cross. She honoured the Master with 
a love that nothing could fully express. And though 
her soul was melted at the sight of His pain, yet it 
was something to relieve the heart of His mother, 
and to show any devotion in her power. 

Long after the sun set, she hovered about the 
garden with its sepulchre. It was only because she 
saw that while she remained His mother would not go 
home, that she returned to her lodging. Yetit seemed 
the hours would never pass. She had lost every- 
thing that made life bearable. She could not weep; 
the fountain of her grief was dry. She went forth 
to her friend, Mary of Clopas, and finding that she 
was in a similar plight, they decided to go back to- 
gether to the tomb. The Magdalene had no dread 
of the dark, deserted streets, and reassured her com- 
panion as they threaded their way to the Garden. 
Hand in hand they walked, too sorrowful for words, 
but as they reached the path leading to the spot, 
they overtook Salome. She too had anticipated 
the hour of meeting, and together they went on their 
way. The moon came from behind a cloud as they 
drew near, bathing everything in its silvern light as 
they entered the enclosure. They bore the necessary 
spices, and only then did it occur to them that they 
would have difficulty in removing the stone. ‘The 
circular disc usually ran in grooves, but it would be 
beyond their strength to roll it back. Like our- 
selves, they were anticipating their difficulties. We 
are prone to meet our troubles—crossing the stream 
in thought long before it comes in sight! And many 


228 Cameos from Calvary 


a burden which tends to crush the spirit is seen 
afterwards to have been unnecessary. 

As they approached the guard, standing like 
statues against the sky, there was a shaking of the 
earth, a flash of light, and a glorious though incom- 
prehensible vision. The stone was removed. While 
it is admittedly difficult to fit all the details to- 
gether, the stories of the four Evangelists are none 
the less reliable. In the circumstances, it would be 
strange if there were no divergence when an event 
so unparalleled were described. ‘That does not af- 
fect the fact of the resurrection itself; on the con- 
trary, it tends to substantiate the truth of it. It 
would seem that while Mary and the other women 
went to tell the disciples what they had seen, Mary 
returned in the wake of Peter and John. Neither of 
the men had credited the story, but they ran to the 
sepulchre to see for themselves. Mary got back 
to find that they had left probably to acquaint the 
others with the fact that the Lord had risen, and 
she now saw in the growing light what they had 
also seen. The tomb was empty, and the grave 
clothes were lying where the body had been. Two 
men spoke to her. Concluding that they were con- 
nected with the estate, in reply to their enquiry as to 
her tears, she replied, ““They have taken away my 
Lord, and I know not where they have laid Him.” 
Her theory was that, owing to some misapprehen- 
sion of Joseph’s purpose, the body had been allowed 
to remain in the tomb only overnight, expecting that 
some of Christ’s friends would be coming to claim 
it. That is consistent with her words to the third 
speaker. ‘She, supposing Him to be the gardener, 
said to Him, Sir, if thou hast borne Him hence, 


Mary and Her Friends 229 


tell me where thou hast laid Him, and I will take 
Him away.” 

“If love lives through all life,” cries Thackeray, 
‘and survives through all sorrow, and remains stead- 
fast to us through all changes, and in all darkness 
of spirit burns brightly, and if we die deplores us 
ever, and still equally loves, and exists with the very 
last gasp and throb of the faithful bosom—whence 
it passes with the pure soul beyond death, surely it 
shall be immortal! ‘Though we-who remain are 
separated from it, is it not ours in heaven? If we 
love still those we lose, can we altogether lose those 
we love?” Mary had not altogether lost her 
Saviour, but the sense of His withdrawal shows how 
much He counted in her life. Yet even more can 
be gauged by the ecstatic joy with which she redis- 
covered Him. It was not the gardener, but Christ 
Himself! Looking at this woman with her down- 
turned head, as she tried to stem her tears, He ut- 
tered her name—‘‘Mary!” It was enough! She 
had heard that name before on those sacred lips, 
and at once her soul leapt up in response. ‘“Rab- 
boni!”—my Master! It was her own name for 
Jesus. The Hebrew title described Him to her 
heart as no other word could. He had verily 
mastered her who had else been a slave to perverted 
instincts and blind passion. He had led _ her, 
cleansed, subdued, and grateful, freed, and yet for 
ever the slave of God. And she had proved as 
others have since, that His service is perfect free- 
dom. Exultant joy needed the language of the 
heart, and religion’s most sacred memories. 

Ian Maclaren, in Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush, 
describes the homecoming of Flora Campbell. The 


230 Cameos from Calvary 


motherless girl had quitted the glen, unable to en- 
dure any longer the harsh and dour father who 
never seemed to understand the longings of her 
heart. But neither had she understood him. As- 
sured by Marget Howe’s letter that her father was 
longing for her with a heart almost breaking in 
spite of his former pride, Flora came back from 
London. 

‘She had made up some kind of speech, but the 
only word she ever said was ‘Father!’ for Lachlan, 
who had never even kissed her all the days of her 
youth, clasped her in his arms and sobbed out bless- 
ings over her head, while the dogs licked her hands 
with their soft, kindly tongues. ‘It is a pity you 
hef not the Gaelic,’ Flora said to Marget after- 
wards. ‘It iss the best of all languages for loving. 
There are fifty words for Darling, and my father 
will be calling me every one that night I came 
home.’ ” 

What the Gaelic was to Flora Campbell, Hebrew 
was to Mary Magdalene—the language of the 
heart. And to her, seeking to express the love 
awakened in her once sinful soul, was granted the 
first vision of the Saviour. Is it not ever thus with 
great lovers of Christ? He meets them in all 
manner of unexpected ways. He speaks to them, 
revealing some greater glory of His risen power. 
And most frequently is it when the soul is cast down, 
when the eyes are dim with life’s sorrows, and faith 
is threatened with extinction. His disciples, toiling 
once amid the turbulent waters of Galilee, saw Him 
approaching in the hour of their peril. And to 
every faithful heart, tried by perplexity or grief, 


Mary and Her Friends 231 


shall the immortal lines of Francis Thompson be a 
prophecy: 


“To, Christ walking on the water, 
Not of Gennesareth, but Thames.” 


Ruskin has much to say of womanhood, and com- 
menting on Tennyson’s line, “I am here at the gate 
alone,” he asks: ‘‘Who is it, think you, who stands 
at the gate of this sweeter garden, alone, waiting 
for you? Did you ever hear, not of a Maud, but a 
Magdalene, who went down to her garden in the 
dawn, and found One waiting at the gate, whom 
she supposed to be the gardener? Have you not 
sought Him often; sought Him in vain, all through 
the night; sought Him in vain at the gate of that 
old garden where the fiery sword is set? He is 
never there; but at the gate of this garden. He is 
waiting always—waiting to take your hand—ready 
to go down to see the fruits of the valley, to see 
whether the vine has flourished and the pomegranate 
budded.” 

Where a loving heart seeks Him, there shall 
Christ be found. And the result is ever the same. 
Faith is rewarded with fuller vision, the heart is 
thrilled with His word of fadeless love and with 
His real presence. For His word stands sure: “Lo, 
I am with you Aes even unto the end of the 
world.” 


XVI 
JOSEPH OF ARIMATHEA 


“Joseph of Arimathea, an honourable 
counsellor, which also waited for the king- 
dom of God.” 

—MARK 15: 43. 


fs HAT is to be done now?” Joseph of 

Arimathea looked into the troubled face 
of his friend, Nicodemus. ‘The question scarcely 
needed an answer. The babel of those bent on 
enjoying the spectacle to the full broke on their ears. 
It was like the raging of billows on a rock-bound 
coast. They felt it unwise to go nearer, for there 
was the chance of personal affront if not violence. 
Their fellow-councillors would not scruple to incite 
the crowd against those who had tried to befriend 
the Galilean. But their hearts swelled with indig- 
nation as they thought of what was going on. Never 
in the history of their nation had such a shameful 
pretence passed for justice. 

“I fear there is nothing we can do.” Nicodemus 
passed his hand across his brow as though to brush 
away spectres of sorrow. ‘The time is past,” he 
went on. ‘When I recall how patiently He spake 
to me that night, talking of the second birth, when 
I think of the love-light in those eyes, and then turn 
to what has befallen Him, my heart is heavy indeed. 

232 





Joseph of Arimathea 23 


I am filled with despair. Why did we not speak 
out boldly on His behalf while we might?” 

“But thou didst, my friend. Greatly did I 
marvel at thy courage as, long ago, thou didst de- 
mand if our law judged a man without first hearing 
him. Thou didst make a deep stir in more souls 
than mine. Methought it might even go well with 
the Galilean because of thy word. Yet Annas is 
too crafty to let his prey pass once it comes within 
reach of his talons. And as thou knowest full well, 
this Caiaphas is only a tool in his wicked hands. 
Still, my heart reproacheth me now that I did not 
stand bravely by thy side, for though I have not 
divulged this to thee before, I love yonder Master 
as my own soul. Yea, only now can I measure His 
worth unto my life.” 

‘And I love Him also,” said Nicodemus. ‘‘Had 
I been able to give my old life for His, gladly would 
I have done so, but now. . . . Hark! what mean- 
eth that?” A crash of thunder, followed by startled 
cries from some of the people, and darkness began 
to shut out the sky while the earth quivered under 
their feet. They turned towards the city, and then 
both stopped irresolute, looking back in the direc- 
tion of the hill-crest. Nicodemus laid his hand on 
the other’s arm. ‘Methinks Jehovah doth show His 
wrath against our nation because of the blindness 
of our hearts. We had the light, but shamefully 
chose darkness; and now the darkness hath been sent 
as our portion. Would that we had died with Him! 
But it is too late now.” 

“Alas! thou hast well said. There is nothing we 
can do. Let us return to my dwelling. It 1 : 
Zanis 


Or PaINGe SN 

uE PS 
No) 
“ye 






1M VY. 





234 Cameos from Calvary 


few paces within the gates if we can but trace the 
path thereto.” 

In the house of Joseph, lamps had been set to 
banish the dimness of the apartment as he and 
Nicodemus entered. He flung himself wearily on 
a divan, and with a wave of the hand indicated the 
appointments of the sumptuously-furnished room. 
‘With all my wealth, and the honoured name I 
bear, and yet I am poorer than the veriest beggar 
who even now howls himself hoarse with fear.” 
The bitterness of remorse was in his tones, and the 
other sat silent. 

At length Nicodemus spoke. ‘‘What thinkest 
thou that they will do with Him afterwards?” _ 

‘Thou meanest with the poor mangled body? I 
fear greatly they will cast it into the Vale of Hinnom 
where the bones of the wicked lie. To think, O my 
friend, that those hands which so oft have brought 
help and healing to multitudes, those feet which sped 
along ways of sympathy, should know no better rest- 
ing-place!” 

Nicodemus sighed. ‘Truly, it is shameful!” 

“Wait!” cried Joseph, starting to his feet. “By 
the beard of my father, this shall not be. Both thou 
and I are filled with grief that we did not do more 
for this Master while we might. Let us show our 
love in this. I have in my garden yonder a tomb 
prepared against the day of my death. We will 
together give Him decent burial.” 

‘But how can this be? Carest thou not what the 
Sanhedrin will say? And what thinkest thou will 
Pilate do when we, who are accounted great in our 
nation, thus ally ourselves with One who died on 


Joseph of Arimathea 235 


the accursed tree? Might we not beg His body in 
secret from the centurion?” 

Joseph spoke decisively. ‘I have thought of that, 
yet it cannot be. ‘The centurion hath no power to 
grant our request save by order of the Governor. 
But I have had enough of cowardice towards this 
Prince of men. My soul is fired with this project. 
I will face the anger of Pilate and the sneers of the 
~ Council. Can I count on thy help? Surely His 
love for all men, and our poor love for Him, de- 
mand this of us!” 

“T am with thee, Joseph. If thine be the tomb, 
then mine shall be the spices for His embalming.” 

The gloom had lifted in part, although the day 
was far spent, when Joseph made his way with beat- 
ing heart into the audience-chamber of Pilate. The 
Governor sat with haggard face, staring moodily 
before him. Joseph’s proffered request was curtly 
refused. 

“Have I not been harassed enough by thy Coun- 
cil? My soul is weary with all its plottings and 
pleas. First it is for this Man’s death, and now it 
is for His body before the breath hath quitted it! 
Nay! Perchance on the morrow I may hear thee; 
that shall be time enough.” 

Some tidings which Joseph had gleaned as he 
came through the palace prompted him to suggest 
that death had already taken place. Pilate looked 
incredulous. Calling the officer of the guard, he 
found, however, that it was even as Joseph said, 
and glad to dispose of a troublesome matter, he gave 
the required order. Nicodemus was waiting with- 
out. Together the two friends made their way to 
Golgotha. The sacred body was taken down from 


236 Cameos from Calvary 


the cross and, wrapped in the linen cloths which 
Nicodemus had brought, it was laid in the sepulchre. 

Darkness had fallen. ‘They returned to the city, 
bowed with a sense of irreparable loss. After 
awhile, Nicodemus spoke. “Of what art thou 
thinking, my friend?” 

“Only how much better we might have shown our 
love to Him while the opportunity was ours!” 

The conversation which we have overheard makes 
us ask, who was this Joseph of Arimathza? Nico- 
demus we know. He appears early in the Fourth 
Gospel, but Joseph makes such a tardy entrance. 
Yet if the esteem in which he was held by the Evan- 
gelists be measured by the place they give to him 
in their pages, he must have been greatly beloved. 
It was certainly a chivalrous thing which Joseph 
did. The redeeming,features in that day of tragedy 
are very few; this is one of them. From the ma- 
terial available, we ascertain that Joseph was a man 
of high character, and deeply religious in the best 
sense of that much-abused term, for he was also a 
Pharisee. But that name has an unpleasant con- 
notation. It stood, originally, for strict rectitude 
and uprightness of conduct, and of the many who 
bore it unworthily, bringing reproach on the name 
and on piety in general, there was one at least who 
‘Wore the white flower of a blameless life.” That 
was Joseph of Arimathea. That he had some claim 
to learning and sound sense is hinted by the fact 
that he had been elected to the Sanhedrin. And 
further, from the fact that he was wealthy as well 
as devout, we infer that his life had been fruitful in 
good deeds. The traits he displayed take time to 
develop, and his generous action in providing for 


Joseph of Arimathea / 


Christ’s interment would not be a solitary instance 
of his benevolence. 

He was more than a man of high principle; he 
was a Christian. It is true that term had not then 
been coined. That came later as one of opprobrium. 
Yet the basic meaning was a soul which had sur- 
rendered to the sovereign sway of Christ. We do 
not know when that happened in Joseph’s case. It 
may be that Nicodemus related what passed between 
Jesus and himself, and the two friends discussed the 
matter at such length, that, for his own peace of 
mind, Joseph was impelled to make enquiries for 
himself. Perhaps when Jesus was in Jerusalem on 
various occasions, this man joined the throngs which, 
clustered to hear His words. He would be careful 
not to make himself conspicuous. Yet as he listened 
to this great Teacher, he felt he was repaid. He 
could appreciate what Jesus said. He was well- 
versed in the Law; it had been his study from his 
youth up, and he was a recognized authority on its 
teachings. Yet the Galilean illumined old passages 
with a marvellous light such as Joseph had never 
seen before, and deeper meaning glowed in the 
familiar words. But the compelling thing was not 
in Christ’s exposition of Sacred Writ, wonderful 
though it was. It was rather in the fact that He 
seemed to know so intimately both God from whom 
the Law came, and man for whom it was intended. 
The love which shone in His face, the tenderness in 
His tones, were unquestionable. And Joseph went 
away thrilled to the core. 

It was all so unusual. Joseph had heard his con- 
fréres speak scornfully of the unlettered herd; 
Jesus spoke with encouragement and appreciation. 


238 Cameos from Calvary 


They had nothing but contempt for such ignorance, 
lack of aspiration, and shortcomings; Jesus had 
compassion and love. Strangest of all was this: as 
Joseph listened, more than once it seemed that the 
Master was speaking not to the assembly, not to 
any one section of His audience, but to a single 
soul—and that was Joseph’s. It had been a revela- 
tion. Mirrored in that moment he saw his own 
life. Before, it had appeared fair as the unruffled 
waters of a summer sea, but now, beneath the sur- 
face, he became aware of rotting wrecks of for- 
gotten vows and abandoned aspirations. And 
Joseph the councillor became Joseph the contrite. 
He had found salvation. He did not openly ac- 
knowledge Jesus as his Master. Perhaps he felt 
barred from actively assisting Him, owing to the 
position he filled, and the unwritten law of his caste. 
It may be that he argued: “It would do the Master 
more harm than good were I thus publicly to ally 
myself with Him. Would it not turn some of these 
wayfarers, to whom He is making such appeal, from 
His side? They might think that if one of the 
Elders were counted among His followers, that 
meant exclusion for them. Besides, it would cer- 
tainly accentuate the dislike with which the San- 
hedrin views Him.” So for the time being, Joseph 
took the line of least resistance, which is often the 
term by which we dignify the course of self-interest 
and even of cowardice. 

Yet that did not settle the matter. Joseph’s head 
urged discretion; his heart solidly voted for disciple- 
ship. He sought the middle path. Possibly he 
could help Jesus in other ways. Anonymous gifts 
reached the treasury. They were ascribed to those 


Joseph of Arimathea 239 


who had received some gracious help or healing. 
And there were other means by which Joseph’s re- 
gard might be expressed. He knew that the hos- 
tility of his colleagues was becoming more intense, 
and though Joseph at this stage of development 
lacked determination, he did make some attempts 
to influence his fellow-senators. But that course 
proved inadvisable, for his mild protests as the as- 
sembly dispersed only incensed his friends. When, 
later on, he found that the Council had resolved 
to silence this Teacher by fair means or foul, he 
formed one of the negligible minority which opposed 
its policy. Nicodemus and a few more shared his 
views. hey discussed the question time after time, 
but they concluded that they could only make their 
protest. hey were as children trying to stem the 
incoming breakers with a rampart of sand, but that 
was all they could do. 

Was it all? He felt self-condemned as he fol- 
lowed the mob to Calvary. He had doubted the 
wisdom .of being seen there at all. He knew how 
unpopular he had made himself with his associates. 
He was considering whether he should return, when 
he encountered Nicodemus. He also had been led 
thither, and the two watched in mute sorrow the 
thronging crowd making for the place of execution. 
The haunting couplet might well express the feelings 
of both hearts: 


“Of all sad words of tongue and pen, 
The saddest are these: ‘It might have been!’ ” 


That explains Joseph’s subsequent course. The 
Jewish law required that a malefactor who was 


240 Cameos from Calvary 


executed should not remain exposed after night- 
fall. ‘‘His body shall not remain all night upon the 
tree, but thou shalt in any wise bury him that day.” 
Rome cared nothing for that. Unless some relatives 
of her victims came to claim the body—when they 
might, for a consideration, take it and bury it ac- 
cording to their own rites—it was left until the 
carrion birds had done their work. But with the 
Passover at hand, the Jews had weighty reasons 
for demanding that the dead should be removed as 
quickly as possible. The Elders urged that the 
victims’ legs should be broken to expedite matters, 
and Pilate had given his consent. 

This point may have been raised in the Sanhedrin, 
and Joseph knowing that the bodies would be flung 
into the ravine saw his chance. His estate lay near 
Calvary, and he resolved to use the tomb for his 
dead Lord. It required some courage, as we have 
seen, to make such a demand of Pilate, for Joseph 
knew that the Governor would not be in a gracious 
mood. Moreover, he had not the slightest claim 
to the body of Jesus. He was neither a relative 
nor a disciple. But Joseph knew his man. Where 
his tongue might fail, his purse would succeed. It 
was well-known that Pilate was not averse to accept- 
ing bribes; in fact, according to Philo, this was one 
of the counts in the indictment afterwards presented 
against him. But we can hope that in this case 
better feelings prevailed. Moved by some little 
pity for the Man whom he had so grievously 
wronged, he may have foregone any chance of gain. 
Yet if he did so, he certainly did not give his con- 
sent willingly. His first objection was that Jesus 
could not be dead so soon. But Professor David 


Joseph of Arimathea 241 


Smith makes an interesting comment on this point. 
He quotes the medical evidence regarding Christ’s 
death, and it bears striking testimony to the anguish 
Jesus endured. “Jesus died literally of a broken 
heart—of ‘agony of mind, producing rupture of the 
heart.’ In that awful hour when He was forsaken 
by the Father, His heart swelled with grief until it 
burst, and then the blood was ‘effused into the dis- 
tended sac of the pericardium, and afterwards sepa- 
rated, as is usual with extravasated blood, into these 
two parts, viz., (1) crassamentum or red clot, and 
(2) watery serum.’ When the distended sac was 
pierced from beneath, it discharged ‘its sanguineous 
contents in the form of red clots of blood and a 
stream of watery serum, exactly corresponding to 
the description given in the sacred narrative, and 
forthwith came there out blood and water.’ ”’ 
When Pilate ascertained that Jesus was indeed 
dead, either there was no further difficulty he could 
raise, or else he was eminently anxious to rid himself 
of the matter. He gave the requisite permission, 
and Joseph and his friend made their way back to 
Calvary. But we see the character of this man 
slowly taking shape. His strength of purpose in 
requesting the body from Pilate is equalled only by 
his disregard of the ostracism which would follow. 
And further proof of the love he felt was in the 
fact that he sought to carry out the last sad offices 
for the dead with his own hands. No servant of 
his household should be allowed to take the most 
menial part of love’s service from him and his 
friend. There were only the women, clustered in 
tender fidelity about the cross, when they reached it, 
and gladly they lent their aid. How in the gather- 


242 Cameos from Calvary 


ing night they extracted the nails without further 
lacerating the sacred hands, we do not know. Per- 
haps the soldiers were taking down the other two, 
and their help was enlisted. But at last the body 
was wrapped about with the linen cloths and spices, 
and the mournful procession made its way to the 
quiet garden. There they laid Him, and with Him, 
what? ‘The hopes and fragrant memories which 
now all seemed but a mockery. The one heart which 
understood all others lay still in the silence of death. 
‘The gracious Master was no more! And echoing in 
the disconsolate soul of Joseph was the dirge of the 
good which might have been. ‘The setting of a 
great hope,” writes Longfellow, “‘is like the setting 
of the sun. ‘The brightness of our life is gone. 
Shadows of evening fall around us and the world 
seems but a dim reflection—itself a broader shadow. 
We look forward into the coming night. The soul 
withdraws into itself. ‘The stars arise, and the night 
is lonely.”” And so Joseph felt. Why had he 
allowed his opportunities to pass unused? Why had 
he arrayed Timidity in the vestment called Expedi- 
ency, and confused discretion with duty? Sins of 
omission are as real as those of commission. Jesus 
emphasized that when He told of the priest and 
Levite who left the stricken traveller unaided by 
the way. And Joseph began to feel that even a 
negation might have positive effects. If in after 
days Saul, by consenting unto Stephen’s martyrdom, 
even though he only held the garments of the ~ 
slayers, felt his guilt, Joseph was conscious of the 
same thing. By not openly avowing his allegiance 
to Christ, by failing to champion the right, he had 
condoned the wrong. 


Joseph of Ar¢mathea 243 


There is something here which we cannot ignore. 
We are not far removed from Joseph. Though the 
centuries lie between ourselves and him, the canyon 
is bridged by a common experience. To few indeed 
is it given to remember their fellowship with their 
kindred and friends without regrets. 


“Who looking backward from his manhood’s prime. 
Sees not the spectre of his misspent time; 
And through the shade 
Of funereal cypress planted thick behind, 
Hears no reproachful whisper on the wind 


From his beloved dead ?” 


There are kindly deeds which might have lifted 
another’s load. We have wrapped them away in 
the drawers of memory, like flowers that died where 
they bloomed without gladdening a single heart, and 
now are mere husks of their former selves. ‘There 
are plans we meant to use for the advancement or 
blessing of another life. We find them dusty, and 
brown at the edges, like the drawings of some bud- 
ding architect who dreamed without doing; those 
plans never materialized. It is not that we depre- 
ciate Joseph’s thought for the Crucified. That was a 
magnanimous deed, and the telling of it will awaken 
a throb of approval while human hearts beat. We 
simply set on it the value Joseph did; his feeling was 
that it amounted to very little at best. Had he done 
something to cheer Christ’s life, to strengthen His 
hands, what a difference it would have made! ‘The 
time for such words of devotion is not when the ear 
is dull in death, but when it aches with the chill 
indifference of the world. The need for a hand that 
gives a sense of companionship in its touch has 


» 244 Cameos from Calvary 


passed when mortality claims its own. As has been 
said for each of us: “I shall pass through this world 
but once. If, therefore, there be any kindness I 
can show, or any good thing I can do, let me do it 
now; let me not defer it nor neglect it, for I shall 
not pass this way again.” 

There is a further thought concerning Joseph 
which is rich in suggestion. Why was he desig- 
nated “of Arimathea’’? Ramathaim, or Beit-Rima, 
which Sir George Adam Smith identifies with the 
ancient Arimathea, was a western town on the 
borders of Philistia. It was situated about thirteen 
miles from Lydda. That does not convey much 
until we refer to the map; then we get the approxi- 
mate location. Lydda, a city of stirring memories, 
had been the scene of intense patriotic fervour as 
early as 44 B.C. Its citizens, refusing to pay the 
Roman levies, were sold as slaves. But the interest 
changes to later times. After Pentecost, when the 
Apostolic band was reconstituted, Peter travelled 
afield proclaiming the Gospel message. He reached 
the distant city of Lydda. Did he come to bring 
the news of Christ’s sacrifice on Calvary? Nay, for 
the tidings had already penetrated to that region. 
We read, ‘‘He came down also to the saints which 
dwelt at Lydda.” ‘That is remarkable. The only 
means by which news travelled in those times was 
through some personal contact. Is it then only a 
coincidence that Joseph was known as “of Ari- 
mathea’? If it were, it is singular that belonging 
to a city so far from Jerusalem, he should yet have 
both his estate and his tomb adjacent to Golgotha. 

If we pursue the line a little further, it will bring 


Joseph of Arimathea 245 


us in sight of an important development. Master- 
ing his difidence in securing Christ’s body, Joseph 
had also come to a newly-discovered self. He was 
impelled to declare His love for the Master, and so 
he possibly shared the mighty experience granted to 
the Apostles and their friends at Pentecost. Then 
the commission came to Joseph as well as to the 
rest. He may have been born in Arimathea, though 
now a resident of Jerusalem. If that were his birth- 
place, and the city where his friends still lived, he 
would naturally turn there in fulfilment of his com- 
mission. His own placid, self-centred life had been 
saved from destruction. The crowning blessing of 
mankind had been given to him. He must tell the 
story of the Saviour’s grace. So where the other 
disciples were not likely to come, Joseph went to 
bear witness to the truth. 

The soil was ready for the seed. One bearing 
news of the Messiah’s kingdom would make instant 
appeal to men of such ancestry. Consequently, when 
Peter came there afterwards, it was to find that the 
faith was already established. Did he stumble on 
the discovery? It is probable that he learned there 
was a company of believers there. Such is the im- 
pression we gain from Luke’s story. Peter’s object, 
therefore, was to encourage and consolidate the new 
cause. Whether Joseph had his antecedents in that 
city or not, this would account for the title assigned 
to him. Not only would it distinguish him from 
other men who bore the same name, but it would 
also be that mark of honour which is still bestowed 
on men who have rendered exceptional service. We 
couple their names with the place of their chief ex- 


246 Cameos from Calvary 


ploits. This applies not only to famous soldiers, 
but to the even more worthy warriors of truth and 
liberty. Parker, of the City Temple, and Dale of 
Birmingham, need no added word to say who they 
were or what they did. Henry Ward Beecher will 
be associated not with Litchfield, Conn., where he 
was born, but with Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, 
where he laboured with titanic strength. Lincoln 
belongs not to Springfield, but to the whole world. 
And the same thing is true of Joseph of Arimathza, 
who gave his best not only to the stricken Master, 
but also to his risen Lord. 

Perhaps Joseph had come to see, as George Eliot 
puts it: “Life is a reckoning we cannot make twice 
over. You can’t mend a wrong subtraction by doing 
your addition right.” But if Joseph had made mis- 
takes, he strove to render the fullest reparation in 
his power. To become the ambassador of Christ 
would be a costly quest for one such as he. Posi- 
tion, privilege, home and friends, would be largely 
sacrificed. But the heart which gave Christ the 
sepulchre felt that He was worthy of the best. And 
that is the conviction of every devoted soul. How 
far Joseph travelled in his desire to tell of the 
Saviour’s love we do not know. But many will re- 
call the legend linking him with Glastonbury, in Eng- 
land. It says that he had been warned in a vision 
not to end his voyage until he came to a hill ‘“‘most 
like Tabor’s holy mount.’’ He came eventually to 
the mounds which overlook Glastonbury, and seeing 
the rounded Tor rising above the plain, felt this to 
be his goal. ‘‘We be weary all,” said the saint, and 
there on Wirral (or, Weary-all) Hill, he planted 
his staff. 


Joseph of Arimathea 247 


According to William of Malmesbury, Joseph 
settled in Somerset, having with him the Holy Grail, 
the cup from which Jesus was supposed to have 
drunk at the Last Supper, and in which also Joseph 
had caught some of the sacred blood. Here he 
founded the first Christian Church in Britain. His 
pilgrim staff took root, and growing miraculously 
into a holy thorn, blossomed each Christmas Eve, 
till the axe of a Puritan laid it low. The romance 
of the Holy Grail is deeply woven into the folk-lore 
of England. Spenser, for instance, says: 


“Hither came Joseph of Arimathy, 
Who brought with him the Holy Grayle (they say), 
And preacht the truth.” 


While Malory, Tennyson, Lowell, and others, have 
used the material in various ways. Yet while this, 
of necessity, gives an air of unreality to Joseph’s 
work, we cannot forget that beneath the mythical 
there may be some basic facts. At least there are 
truths which have a practical bearing on life. Prof. 
J. R. Seeley’s oft-quoted maxim gives us the secret 
of this disciple’s life. ‘‘No heart is pure that is 
not passionate; no virtue is safe that is not enthusi- 
astic.”’ The Glastonbury legend suggests that 
Joseph’s love, breaking its fetters all too late, was 
yet unencompassable by any bounds of self-interest. 
It must go forth on its new path, unwearying and 
undaunted. The tidings of Calvary’s victorious 
Victim must be for every ear. 

Now the power of such an impassioned soul can- 
not be put in measurable terms. The staff, the 
symbol of its pilgrim life, blossoms with the years, 


248 Cameos from Calvary 


giving forth beauty and sweet perfume. And that 
is emblematic of the Christian. Ralph Connor gives 
us a striking parallel to this in the minister who 
toiled in the far West. He commended Christ not 
only by preaching the Word, but also by his fine, 
manly character. But his strength is overtaxed, and 
he dies. From all parts, the ranchers and their 
wives gather for a simple service. Then amid the 
erief of the little company which had not appre- 
ciated him at his true value, he is borne out to 
the long, sloping sunny prairie. ‘Then follows this 
striking word: “Spring has come many times to 
the canyon since that winter day, and has called to 
the sleeping flowers, summoning them forth in 
merry troops, and ever more and more till the 
canyon ripples with them. And lives are like 
flowers. In dying, they abide not alone, but sow 
themselves and bloom again with each returning 
spring, and ever more and more.” 

“Lives are like flowers!” ‘That might be an 
epitaph for Joseph of Arimathea. He had no idea 
that the fragrance of his love for Jesus would travel 
down the years. He did not know that in providing 
a resting-place for those mortal remains, he was also 
securing a place for himself among the immortals. 
There is both challenge and inspiration in the 
thought. 


‘‘We have as treasure without end 


Whatever, Lord, to Thee we lend.” 


Is not that the idea conveyed with consummate skill 
by G. F. Watts, in “Sic Transit’? There we see a 
shrouded form resting on a bier. Around it are 


Joseph of Arimathea 249 


various articles symbolizing the many-sided interests 
of the life now closed. There are the book of the 
scholar, the lute of the musician, the robe of the 
courtier, and the casque and lance of the knight. 
An overturned goblet tells of past revelry, but the 
joy of the hours has fled. The gauntlet suggests 
the challenge thrown down to life itself; the pea- 
cock’s feather speaks of pomp and circumstance; 
while a shell is emblematic of the traveller to for- 
eign shores. Lying apart from the rest, is a crown 
of laurel. Does this signify fame? Nay, some- 
thing more enduring, for it is still green and be- 
tokens the crown of character. ‘That is plain from 
the inscription on the wall behind the figure: ‘‘What 
I spent, I had. What I saved, I lost. What I gave, 
I have.” 

This is eternally true. The life spent for self 
is lost; the life lavished for the good of others re- 
ceives a thousand-fold in return. In enrichment and 
ennoblement of soul is its sure reward. “It is a 
happy thing for us,”’ says George MacDonald, “‘that 
this is really all we have to concern ourselves about 
—what is to do next. No man can do the second 
thing; he can do the first.”” If we would gain the 
supreme good, we must be good by doing it. If we 
would declare our love to Christ it must be not in 
word alone, not in mere protestations of fidelity, 
but in actions which speak louder than words. 
These bear witness to the vital faith which sways 
the soul, and Whittier says of every such resolute 
heart: 


“If he hath hidden the outcast, or let in 
A ray of sunshine to the cell of sin— 


250 


Cameos from Calvary 


If he hath lent 
Strength to the weak, and in an hour of need, 
Over the suffering, mindless of his creed 

Or home, has bent, 
He has not lived in vain... . 


And while he gives 

Praise to God, in whom he moves and lives, 
With thankful heart 

He gazes backward, and with hope before, 

Knowing that from such works he nevermore 
Can henceforth part.” 


XVII 
NICODEMUS, THE SENSITIVE 


“And there came also Nicodemus, which 
at the first came to Jesus by night.” 


—JOHN 19:39. 


IKE most sensitive people, Nicodemus is greatly 
misunderstood. Much that has been written 
and said of his lack of conviction, his hesitancy, his 
cowardice, is unmerited. Perhaps the emphasis 
which the Fourth Gospel places on the fact that he 
“came to Jesus by night’ may account for it in some 
degree. It is singular that, in each of the three 
passages where John refers to him, this point should 
be noted. Yet we believe that cowardice is the last 
thing of which he can be rightly accused. Certain 
it is that we owe something to him. The deep im- 
pression made on his mind by Christ’s ministry is 
increasingly felt as we bring together the three inci- 
dents, and for that reason, if for no other, our 
studies would be incomplete without some attempt 
to understand this man. The key to such fuller 
understanding is found in this phrase, ‘‘And there 
came also Nicodemus.” 

Comparatively early in Christ’s public work, it 
would seem, the attention of this ruler had been 
centred on the Galilean Teacher. A deputation had 
met John the Baptist. “They desired some informa- 
tion regarding his mission. And though his words 


may not have been reported in full to the Sanhedrin, 
251 


252 Cameos from Calvary 


his reference to the “‘generation of vipers” could 
hardly be considered complimentary. But John had 
spoken of Another, whose way he had come to pre- 
pare. That awakened interest. “Then when Jesus 
came, taking up the same theme—the need for re- 
pentance and the imminence of the Kingdom—the 
matter had been thrashed out with considerable heat 
and no little bitterness in the Sanhedrin itself. All 
the Elders said in disparagement of Jesus would be 
known to Nicodemus. Yet he was too familiar with 
their bias to place any reliance on their opinions. 
Spiritual matters were of the first moment to him. 
He felt there was no other course open to him but 
to make some personal investigations. It was due 
to Jesus as well as to himself that, instead of being 
swayed by those who would not err on the side 
either of accuracy or generosity, he should ascertain 
who this Man was and what His message involved. 

That is only what we might expect from a scholar, 
a man of deep spirituality, and also one of gentle 
and retiring disposition. But before he took the 
venturous step of confronting Christ, he had tried 
other sources of information, and he became sensi- 
tive to the worth of this new Teacher from the 
north. That is more remarkable than it may seem 
at first sight. We know that worth. We have the 
testimony of those who heard Him speak, and whose 
souls were fired with love for Him as they watched 
His life. Yet with Nicodemus it was different. 
There was everything to make due appreciation dif- 
ficult. Birth and upbringing presented obstacles. 
The family of Nicodemus was an old and honoured 
one. He had been carefully educated. All that 
money and pride could do tended to deepen the gulf 


Nicodemus, the Sensrteve 253 


between him and the common people. While the 
position to which he had been elected—that of mem- 
bership in the Sanhedrin—was the coping-stone of 
the ruling caste. Jesus had none of these advan- 
tages. It was well-known that He belonged to the 
ordinary people. Sadder still, for any hope of privi- 
lege He might hope to reach, He took no pains to 
disguise that fact. On the contrary, He seemed to 
glory in it. Repeatedly He spoke of Himself as 
the Son of man. Then as a public teacher, He 
lacked other advantages. He had no academic 
status; He could not point to any training which 
fitted Him to be an authority on matters of religion 
or ethics. And such deficiencies would not be over- 
die by a man of Nicodemus’s temper and out- 
ook. 

Notwithstanding these things, this finely attuned 
soul felt the sublimity of this Man’s nature. There 
was nothing else for it. He must ascertain for him- 
self what the advent of this great spiritual leader 
meant. Thus, one night, when the throngs of people 
had melted from the narrow streets, when the plain- 
tive cries of the mendicants and the raucous voices 
of the merchants were hushed, Nicodemus set out 
with beating heart. It was for him the adventure 
of his life. He had never taken such a plunge be- 
fore. He was too sensitive about his deepest feel- 
ings to exhibit any interest before curious eyes 
which might misinterpret his motives. He dare not 
put any question to Jesus with the chance that the 
Master might misunderstand his motive, and think 
it were meant to embroil Him in controversy. And 
a private interview seemed the only way. The 
Galilean was wending His way back to His lodging. 


254 Cameos from Calvary 


He was weary, for none can speak of the things of 
God, earnestly and feelingly,’ without virtue going 
forth from him; none can sympathize with human 
infirmity and sin without experiencing some deep 
pain of heart. Jesus felt these things more than 
any man. Perhaps the disciples had returned to 
make preparation for the evening meal while the 
Master dealt with some seeking soul, and He was 
now making His way home. He was alone, or 
Nicodemus would have hesitated about speaking so 
fully of what was on his heart. The quiet was pleas- 
ing after the noisy excitement of the pressing multi- 
tudes. The last flush of sunset had almost gone, 
reminding us of the colour that lingers on a maiden’s 
cheek as one beloved has said his words of farewell 
for the night. “Dear God! the very houses seem 
_ asleep!’’ And Christ stops for a moment to look 
over the city, nestling down beneath the soft-falling 
veil of night. None but He could discern the disease 
which set its pulse throbbing with fevered beat! 
None but He could know the ache and heart-break 
enclosed by every city’s walls. 

As Christ moves on again, a shadow falls across 
His way. A footfall is heard. Who addresses 
Him? The tones are those of a cultured man. 
Jesus turns to see one who, by his attire, plainly 
belongs to the elect of Jerusalem. He is a ruler 
of the people. It is just possible that a medical 
man, returning home after a long day in the hos- 
pital, might feel annoyed were he called on for some 
new case. It is possible that some distinguished 
preacher who has held a vast audience enthralled, 
and who is aware that he has reached the limits of 
endurance, might feel resentment when some critical 


Nicodemus, the Sensitive 255; 


enquirer presses forward to take him to task for 
something said or left unsaid. It is utterly im- 
possible for Christ to be anything but responsive 
and willing to help a soul in straits. Nicodemus, 
who had been tormented with doubt, yet who shrank 
from accosting the Master at all, must have felt 
that. That is why he acted as he did. 

His earnestness may be judged by his mode of 
address. ‘Rabbi, we know that Thou art a Teacher 
come from God, for no man can do these miracles 
which Thou doest except God be with Him.” That 
demonstrates how much this ruler had been im- 
pressed by the worth and work of Jesus. He gives 
our Lord a title of honour and respect to which He 
could not lay academic claim,—Rabbi!—and our 
_ minds are startled by his admission that this Teacher 
came from God. Apo theou, on the lips of this ex- 
clusive Pharisee! What can be the significance? 
Certainly he had thrown all reserve aside. Yet this 
is neither compliment nor fulsome flattery, meant 
to take Christ by storm. It is the candour of a 
heart convinced. While between this aristocrat of 
aristocrats and this Democrat we might suspect the 
existence of an unbridgeable gulf, it is beyond ques- 
tion that Nicodemus knew he had found his Master. 

The ruler’s reference to the miracles brings us 
within hearing of echoes of controversy. The 
matter had been before the Council. That Jesus 
did many notable works could not be denied, but 
whence His power? Nicodemus had settled that 
question. ‘No man can do these miracles... 
except God be with Him.” Yet how came He from 
God? Were not His parents known to the rulers? 
The two statements had seemed irreconcilable. Sup- 


256 Cameos from Calvary 


pose this Man were an impostor, He possessed a 
power which even His opponents could not deny, 
though they might differ about its source. And 
this doctor of the law found himself hopelessly in- 
volved. The maze of interpretations of Mosaic 
tradition and law was nothing compared with this. 
This Man might be false; yet His words rang true. 
He was trying to impose on the credulity of the 
people, said some; yet His love for them could 
not be gainsaid. He was wicked; yet could the bad 
do good? And on the battlefield of the soul Nico- 
demus had seen the struggle go on. ‘Then a word 
of Christ’s teachings brought victory. ‘By their 
fruits ye shall know them. .. .””. This Man must 
be other than the Elders said. 

Emboldened by the progress he had made, Nico- 
demus faced Jesus with his other difficulties. For 
he is one of the sincere enquirers whom Tennyson 
had in mind when he wrote: 


“There is more faith in honest doubt, 
Believe me, than in half the creeds.” 


He cannot commit himself until he knows more. 
He must not involve the good name of the rulers 
by any action taken in his private capacity. But 
more important still, he must discuss his difficulties 
with this Teacher in circumstances which will enable 
him to talk without interruption from outside. He 
is sensitive; these matters mean too much to be 
dragged in the dust of party strife. And so, no 
longer as a term of reproach, but rather as indicat- 
ing the deep seriousness of the man, we think of him 
as coming to Jesus by night. 


Nicodemus, the Senseteve 257 


That the darkness enfolded his mind as well as 
his form can be noted from the conversation which 
followed. Jesus divined his purpose. He knew 
this was no mere quibbler, who had come to argue 
a point in His teaching. It was no digger of pit- 
falls, camouflaging his real mission with religious 
phrases. He was a seeker for truth. And the 
night comes before the dawn. Jesus paid him the 
honour of imparting fuller truth. Yet as the 
Master spoke of the new birth, instead of clearing 
up the mystery it seemed to grow deeper. To the 
mind of the rabbi, steeped in literalism, and fast- 
bound by tradition, it seemed an impossible thing to 
be born again. For as we know, nothing hinders 
growth in grace and progress in truth like precon- 
ceived ideas. And one of the sublime truths of 
God’s revelation of Himself to the human mind is 
this: “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so 
are My ways higher than your ways, and My 
thoughts than your thoughts.” ‘The ruler realized 
that before the interview terminated. He was one 
who had climbed until he had reached what he 
thought was the summit of the mountain. Yet a 
mighty and unscaleable height towered before his 
eyes. But is not that one of Christ’s greatest bless- 
ings to the soul? He lifts the mind above the easily 
grasped, where contentment may enthrall, and 
brings it a vision of the sublimities of God. Nico- 
demus had to think over this further revelation. 
But Christ’s words are never meant to bewilder and 
overwhelm the soul. He brings hope by which the 
goal may yet be won and the blessing be assured. 

The effects of that interview can be seen in the 
second incident in which Nicodemus figures. Day 


258 Cameos from Calvary 


after day, while the wrangling of the Sanhedrin be- 
came more difficult to endure, this thoughtful soul 
pondered the truth to which he had come. His 
heart was incensed by the shameful things his fellow- 
senators said about Jesus. Yet he could not be sufhi- 
ciently sure of his ground to challenge their ruling 
on this new Teacher. He wanted to be fair. He 
had spoken to Jesus privately because he did not 
wish to cause any public comment on his action as 
one of the Sanhedrin. He could not lay bare his 
own spiritual solicitude to the curious gaze of the 
crowd. But still he was uneasy. How should he 
act? Night after night he had wrestled with his 
problem. He could not yet comprehend all Jesus 
had said. He did, however, feel that he understood 
Jesus better. And his heart was filled with deep 
affection and admiration for one so gracious. Give 
it time, and such love will reveal itself. Among the 
moors of Scotland, one sometimes comes across a 
strange streak of green, fresh grass, straggling 
through the heather. The contrast is too marked 
not to be striking. ‘The eye follows its direction, 
while the mind enquires the reason. ‘There is an 
underground streamlet. It is that which feeds the 
gleaming grass. And the course of its flow can be 
noted by the effect it produces. So it is with those 
who, sensitive to Christ’s worth and work, may love 
Him without demonstrativeness or declamation. 
Not that we eulogize the silent tongue; the spoken 
word of loyalty may achieve much. But neither 
do we apologize for it, if there be the eloquent life. 
Sooner or later, in word or deed, love will speak 
its passion. 

Time went on. More than a year had elapsed 


Nicodemus, the Sensitive 259 


before we hear Nicodemus’s voice. Jesus had con- 
tinued His ministry of enlightenment and ennobling, 
and His enemies had been unable to compass His 
ruin. Some six months before the final blow fell, 
however, He had reappeared in the Capital. The 
time seemed opportune. Orders were issued for 
His arrest. ‘This was entrusted to part of the 
Temple guard. But when the officers came back, 
they did so empty-handed. “Why have ye not 
brought Him?” The question blazed on the lips 
of the president. They had counted on getting Him 
into their power while the chances were in their 
favour, and the Council had been brought to that 
pitch of feeling in which unanimity might be secured. 
The reply was as maddening as it was inconclusive. 
“Never man spake like this Man!”’ 

Was it the glowing periods of Christ’s preach- 
ing? Was it the magnificent sweep of His mind, 
and the spell of His oratory? Or was it the tender- 
ness, the blending of divinity and humanity, the 
indefinable, mystic power of the Man Himself, 
touching the soul as the musician brings forth the 
long, plaintive moan, or the gladsome, lilting strains 
from the same violin? We cannot answer that. It 
is sufficient to say that the arrest was not carried 
out. It seemed an inadequate excuse. The officers 
felt it now, looking no longer into that winsome 
face, but into the eyes of their superiors. And they 
quailed before the biting sarcasm of their ques- 
tioner. ‘‘Are ye also deceived? Have any of the 
rulers or of the Pharisees believed on Him? But 
this people that knoweth not the law are cursed!” 

There was one present to whom the reference to 
the unbelief of the rulers had a personal challenge. 


260 Cameos from Calvary 


He could not sit silent. It was Nicodemus. Nerv- 
ing himself to speak he asked, ‘‘Doth our law judge 
any man before it hear him, and know what he 
doeth?” ‘The question was meant as a protest, but 
its importance in the mind of the president can be 
measured by his chilling rejoinder. ‘Art thou also 
of Galilee? Search and look, for out of Galilee 
ariseth no prophet!’ The questioner was silenced, 
and the Council stood adjourned. This sensitive 
soul was wounded by the barbed shaft. A man cast 
in a different mould might have done more. Yet it 
had cost him much to speak even this faltering word 
on Christ’s behalf. Not that we would make 
excuses for him; we simply seek to understand one 
of his temperament. We could wish he had been 
like Portia, who, stirred by the injustice to which 
Antonio had been subjected by the malice of Shy- 
lock, stood forth to plead his cause. We could 
wish that like John Bright or Edmund Burke, he 
had lifted his voice to protect the weak and suc- 
cour the oppressed. ‘That is not the point. Being 
what he was, shrinking and sensitive, it were some- 
thing that he made his protest in face of such strong 
opposition. And in tracing the development of his 
soul, we find that Phillips Brooks is a sure guide. 
“Jesus does for Nicodemus,” says that gifted divine, 
“the three things which every thorough teacher must 
do for every scholar. He gives him new ideas, He 
deepens with these ideas his personal character and 
responsibility, and he builds for him new relations 
with his fellow-men. When Nicodemus goes away 
from Jesus, he carries with him the new truth of 
regeneration; he is trembling with the sense that, 
to make that truth thoroughly his, he himself must 


Nicodemus, the Sensitive 261 


be a better man; and by and by, he is seen setting 
himself against the current of his fellow-judges to 
speak a word for the Master.” 

When subsequently the infamous plottings of the 
priests came to a head, and Jesus was slain, Nico- 
demus reveals the still further development which 
had taken place. While Joseph secured Pilate’s 
consent to let him inter the body of our Lord, John’s 
narrative gives us this conclusive proof of the other’s 
affection, ‘‘And there came also, Nicodemus.”’ Such 
love as his takes time to mature, but it comes to its 
own eventually. And though it was still the same 
man who came at first by night, there was the dawn- 
ing glory of a new day for him. His fragrant 
spices were not more sweet in their perfume than 
the soul in which Christ was then enthroned. Still, 
it would have been a finer thing if Nicodemus had 
openly declared his love for Christ. Secret disciple- 
ship is not to be despised. Yet frank acknowledg- 
ment of the soul’s surrender to His rule would ac- 
complish more. 


“A few more flowers strewn on the pathway of life, 
And fewer on graves at the end of the strife,” 


would certainly bring increased happiness to the 
world. And while the Master does not scorn the 
love of the humblest, the service of the lowliest, 
though it be expressed in secret, yet that discipleship 
which is ashamed of nothing but its unworthiness, 
can be of unspeakable value both to Him and to 
His cause. ‘That is where the advantage of definite 
decision comes in, and the value of Church member- 
ship is seen. We do not imply that those who are 


262 Cameos from Calvary 


enrolled in the ranks of the Church are any better 
than they ought to be; we do mean that they may 
be better than they are! We do not diminish the 
value of such quiet, steady growth in grace which 
Nicodemus showed; we do emphasize the ultimate 
emergence to a fine fidelity which his life found. 
Christ is worthy of the finest service we can 
render. We have seen something of what He en- 
dured “for us men and our salvation.” We have 
stood by, amid human hate and scorn, filled with 
reverent wonder at His sublime fortitude and love. 
Can we ever become so familiar with the facts of 
our faith that they leave us uninspired and un- 
moved? Yet the beauties of the world meet with 
little response. ‘‘What would a blind man give,” 
asks Izaak Walton, “to see the pleasant rivers, and 
meadows, and flowers, and fountains that we have 
met with? I have been told that if a man that was 
born blind could have his sight but for only one 
hour during his whole life, and should, at the first 
opening of his eyes, fix his sight upon the sun when 
it was in its full glory, either at the rising or setting 
of it, he would be so transported and amazed, and 
so admire the glory of it, that he would not will- 
ingly turn his eyes from that first ravishing object 
to behold all the other various beauties this world 
could present to him. And this, and many other 
like blessings, we enjoy daily; and for most of them, 
because they are so common, most men forget to 
pay their praises. But let not us, because it is a 
sacrifice so pleasing to Him that made the sun and 
us, and still protects us, and gives us flowers and 
showers, and meat and content.’ All of which goes 
so far that we would fain go further. The Sun of 


De dp 


Nicodemus, the Sensitive 263 


Righteousness has shone on earth’s darkened sphere. 
It has pierced the gloom of sin and sorrow, bringing 
hope of a fairer day and the gladness of fellowship 
with the Father of light. It has revealed the way 
to blessedness and peace. It has shown us the path 
of life in which, by service to our fellow-men, we 
may pour out our love to God. And not only in 
the faces of these women and men who loved Christ 
and sought to share His travail, but also in the face 
of the Master Himself, we see the joy of serving. 

Moved by His love for mankind, humbled and 
yet inspired by His unconquerable faith in frail 
humanity, let us set our hearts on hastening the day 
of His victory. Many a difficulty will confront us. 
Many a discouragement will have to be mastered. 
Yet Christ shall be our inspiration. Through that 
week of doom He came to His throne. He shall 
yet see of the travail of His soul and shall be satis- 
fied. The day will yet dawn when His dominion 
shall be complete, and men of every nation, and 
kindred and people, and tongue, shall crown Him 
Lord of all. 


THE END 











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